


Changing course

by Nukyster



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Christianity, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ivar (Vikings) Being an Asshole, Ivar as a slave, Major Original Character(s), Psychological Torture, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Vikings, hopefully correct historical facts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 70,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nukyster/pseuds/Nukyster
Summary: What if King Egbert's promised safe passage back home turned out to be a lie? Ivar-as-a-slave-fiction.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 55





	1. Changing course

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero to me. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. 
> 
> Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me. 
> 
> Shoutout to my beta-reader CherieLebeau<3

****  
  
.-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry.   
  
He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day.    
  
That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down. 

  
His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction. 

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside.  _ Hush dyrbare,  _ she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm,  _ it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you _ .    
  
Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate.    
  
It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable. 

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things.    
  
It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled.    
  
So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation. 

  
Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

  
It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town.    
  
What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman.    
  
He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered.    
  
It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin.    
  
All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice. 

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless.    
  
At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed.    
  
Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees. 

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation. 

  
From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.    
  


He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out.    
  
He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge.    
  
But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded.    
  


That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid.    
  
The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken.    
  
Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst.    
  
His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him.    
  
Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

  
For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation.    
  
But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo.    
  
The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in.    
  
Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.    
  


Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable. 

  
Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached. 

  
He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried. 

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men. 

  
The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe. 

  
At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away. 

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror. 

  
‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian? 

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’ 

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore. 

  
Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later. 

  
Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

  
When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face. 

  
The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet. 

  
Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him. 

  
Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away. 

  
The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat. 

  
The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him. 

  
“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly. 

  
The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back. 

  
In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole. 

  
Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull. 

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth. 

  
Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing. 

  
Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it. 

  
He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck.    
There was no escape, at least not now. 

  
And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him. 

  
He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all. 

.-.-.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is. 
> 
> And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby. 
> 
> Xoxox Nukyster


	2. Dorestad; The Centrum of Wine and Slave Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar soon realised he wasn’t different from the cattle being pushed and pulled around.

.-.-.

With the same vigorous spirit, the overseers filled up the cages and their travel continued. As Ivar tried to relax his stiff back against the iron frame of his cage, the road slowly changed from murky grime to a pattern of cobblestones. Reserved, he made no attempt to speak to his partners of misfortune and tried to memorise the route they were taking.  **  
** **  
** Aside from him, two older men traded information. They spoke with heavy dialect, still Ivar was able to overhear the essence: the country they’ve been shipped too was called Frisia, which was part of the Frankish empire, since Charlemagne’s invasion. Soon, Ivar learned that the language of the overseers was called Dietsc and that their travel would end at the auction in Dorestad; the centrum of wine and slave trade.    
  
Grey clouds formed an impenetrable fortress for the sun and therefore harvested all warmth. Specks drizzled down onto the heads of the soon to be slaves; aggravating Ivar’s black mood.    
  
The Gods were pissing down on him, it was a clear sign of their disappointment, which Ivar shared. He should have fought in Wessex, instead of being his father’s obedient little lapdog. Look where his uncharacteristic meek behaviour had brought him; caged, crossing a grey, dead-beat country.    
  


Robbed of his leather tunic, Ivar was an easy target for the cold; the rain effortlessly seeped through the thin fabric of his clothes. The absence of decent meals and a good night's rest made hunger gnaw on his stomach and cluttered his mind.   
  
The breeze had been mild at first, but now numbed his face, hands and feet. With no buffer from the cold, his body started to lose heat rapidly. Ivar’s teeth clattered behind his bluish lips when their trip ended at an imposing settlement. 

  
The carts stopped abruptly at the city’s centre; a marketplace of comprehensive size. Foreign chattering rumbled between sellers and buyers, haggling over the best products for the best prizes. Crates for vegetables, fruits, grain and cheese lay tactically on display while the seller shouted, trying to overrule others with their volume.    
  
Massive barrels were being pushed onto carts, exporting the finest wines throughout the country while vendors shook hands, collecting their fee.    
  
Live stock was being ushered through the crowd, calves abruptly separated from their mothers, chickens were being sold in cages, so small that the animals started to peck at each other.    
  
Ivar soon realised he wasn’t different from the cattle being pushed and pulled around. In the middle of the market, there was a small stage where a group of possible buyers had assembled in lines, eager to buy the best of human merchandise.    
  
Men, women and children were put up for display. One by one, an overseer showed off their muscles, healthy teeth, shiny hair. And like meek lambs, the slaves passively let them. Most kept their eyes at their feet or at the horizon; their gazes shared the same emptiness and dejection.    
  
Ivar’s cart was one mainly filled with elderly men, a few young children and a pregnant woman. Their cart was the last to be auctioneered and the audience had drastically decreased once the first men of their cart came up for display.    
  
When Ivar was pulled up the stage by the overseers, parts of the lost attention slipped back. Audience members paused their chattering, turned back to lay their eyes on the crippled.   
  
Mocking and laughter echoed through the air when the overseer tried to point out Ivar’s well developed upper body in a bid to minimize the focus on his handicapped legs.    
  
Throughout his life, Ivar had become indifferent to the cautious stares and quiet whispers that bubbled up every time he dragged his sorry arse through Kattegat. But to have his disadvantages pulled up for full display while a crowd of Christians pointed, stared and ridiculed him was unforgivable.    
  
Rage riled up his temper, fury warmed up his numb limbs and made him jerk loose from the overseer. With all the passion his wavering body could muster, he pulled himself along to the wooden edge. A scream seated deep from within, forced its way out of Ivar’s mouth. Like a beast, he howled; startling and scarring the spectators.    
  
A young boy was being hoisted up his mother’s chest, as Ivar produced unhinged hollers.    
The overseers swiftly stepped in, putting an end to the rebellious act.   
  
It wasn’t the first blow that silenced him, neither was it the second, nor the third. It took a solid hit of a baton between Ivar’s ribs to make him moan and fall.    
  
There was nothing glorious about taking the beating, it was a lost cause; three vital men were towering over him while they kicked the living daylight out of him. One managed to repeatedly hit the same spot; the kidneys.    
  
A fist slammed his eye shut, his skull ricocheted onto the wood and as blood pooled into his mouth, Ivar slowly saw all the light fade away. A flock of ravens circled far above him, cawing ominously. Ivar managed to tilt his chin up and plead: “forgive me father, for I could not avenge you,” before embracing the darkness, like an old friend.

.-.-.

Blinking his one good eye, a montage of angered, shocked faces. Blinking again, blood still seeped from his busted lip. 

  
A piece of rotten fruit smashed against the side of his face. Laughing, sneering, taunts spoken in unfamiliar tongues. 

  
Another cart. Wrist twisted behind his back, aching and chained. Knees scraped over bloody planks of the stage. The smell of hay and mildew, cold, aching limbs and not enough strength to lift his chin up. Tilting his head then. A giant grinned down at him from high above, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth and gabs. Crows feet radiated from the corners of the Giant’s grey eyes, revealing the amusement of watching Ivar’s battered state. 

  
The Giant handed a few coins to the overseer, but the man refused and without further notice Ivar was given away for free.    
  
The ride that followed was one of pure agony. The cobblestoned road made Ivar’s beaten body toss, turn and tumble. With his wrist shackled behind his back, it was impossible to keep himself in place. All that remained was simply to endure, which was easier said than done. The searing pain coming from his ribs made Ivar gasp for air like a fish on dry land.    
  
That sound earned him a soft chuckle from the Giant, sitting up front at the buck. The man clacked his tongue, ordering the horses to trotter.    
  
The acceleration made the motions grow in multitude. Ivar’s body was tossed from side to side like a rag doll until he was knocked out due to the intensity of the pain. 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I tend to enjoy beating the shit out of Ivar a little too much. And this is just the beginning, because this cocky little bastard needs to understand his new place in the world. I don’t think you’ll be too shocked, but Ivar’s going to have some difficulty accepting his ‘new place’. 
> 
> Also Dorestad was a real city. I’m from Holland and always love to somehow merge a little tat of my ‘world’ into the story. So there you go, little bit of Dutch History! 
> 
> Xoxox Nukyster


	3. Goddess Nótt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the creature in front of him reminded him of the Goddess Nótt.

.-.-.

When Ivar woke up, his chest felt heavy and a string of harsh coughs made his body wither in pain. The breaths he took were too fast and shallow, but he couldn’t get his breath under control, sucking it in and out rapidly. He rang his tongue over his teeth; checking for possible damage. The inside of his mouth felt the same though, no fragments or shards of teeth. No gaping holes, unlike that Giant’s rotting mouth. Ivar recalled that blackened smile indulging in his suffering; watching Ivar squirm and grimace in the back of the cart.    
  
If this violation had occurred in Kattegat, Ivar would have the man quartered; allow his brothers to use the man’s decapitated torso for target practice. Oh, he’d be patient and wait how over time little insects would feast off the man’s flesh and ravens would peck out the bastard’s eyes. 

But Ivar was kingdoms away from that safe haven; from home. And realising that, left him overwhelmed; his laboured breathing hitched and a low moan escaped his busted lips. 

Eager to examine his face, Ivar carefully moved his right hand. Although his wrists had been freed, the dreadful ride had been long; which left his sockets overstretched and his arm muscles aching. 

Cautiously, he brought his right hand up to his face. Blood warmed the tips of his frozen fingers, the bumps, swelling and bruises a painful reminder of his previous beatings. His face felt alien and another moan escaped the back of his throat as he tried to open his right eye. The swelling was so severe it was impossible; the socket was the size of a chicken's egg.    
  
By Odin, what had he’d done to deserve this?

Another rattle caused his chest to heave up and he coughed his throat raw. As he gasped and inhaled, the damp smell of ammonia and hay filled his nostrils. It smelled like home, like the Great Hall where the fire always burned bright. Melancholy swept through him and claimed every inch of his chest. Squeezing his good eye shut, Ivar casted out every sliver of emotion.    
  
Survival mode eventually took over and Ivar set his mind to finding out more of his current whereabouts. 

  
He lay inside a makeshift stable, in an empty box filled with hay and animal feces. Door hinges creaked softly, a cold wind whipped through gasps in the planks. Combined with the sounds of small cattle, Ivar allowed his tense bearing to ease. There was no indication of danger, at least not for the moment.    
  
Although his wrists had been freed, Ivar wasn’t going to get very far. Both his ankles were in shackles. The chains rattled as he adjusted himself into a sitting position; alerting the animals of his conscious state. A flock of chicken guardians tottered around the corner to see if the strange newcomer had food in store.    
  


The first chicken brave enough to come near Ivar, quickly learned that this newcomer wasn’t keen on being pecked in the feet.    
  
Ivar lunged his stiff legs at the chicken, which scurried back with fright. The rest of her flock followed her example and left the unwelcome newcomer alone.    
  


There was more life inside the stable, less animalistic than cattle, but not as human as Ivar expected. Soft, cautious footsteps stopped near his box and large eyes, dark as night sky, took in his poor state with curiosity and awe.    
  
Ivar did vice versa; the creature in front of him reminded him of the Goddess Nótt. The maiden's skin was the color of earth dug from deep within the ground. It was darker than Ivar had ever seen. Even the men who’d caught adrift at sea; scored for days by the sun, did not come close to the dark pigment of the young woman. She must have crawled through the soils of the earth to earn such an unique complexion; night personified.    
  
Her dark eyes narrowed as her fingers gripped firmly around the wooden beam of his box, revealing more of herself she took a mere step aside to move into an active position; if he’d make any sudden move she’d flee. Ivar recognised that gaze in her eyes, he’d seen it before many times. During the hunt, moments before he’d drive his arrow through the skull of a doe.    
  
She must be a slave, the layers of the rags she wore were tattered, worn and dirty. Her hair was hidden away behind a bandana; the fabric in the same poor state as the rest of her clothes. Intrigued by her overall alien appearance, Ivar gawked at her through his one good eye.    
  


Still the center of her focus, the slave slowly sank to her knees and picked up a small rock. With swiftness, she swung the rock in Ivar’s direction. The lack of food caused absence in strength and reflexes, resulting in being hit right between the eyes. 

  
Ivar cried out and squeezed his good eye shut, bringing his hand to his throbbing face. When he reopened his eye, the savage bitch was holding up another small rock. Extracting her arm back to repeat her previous attack, Ivar turned from prey into predator. 

Dashing forwards, like an arrow shot from a bow, he came at her like a malicious dog, snarling and spitting. 

The absence of food and overgrowth of rage, clearly cluttered his brain and the malicious dog quickly found out he was on a very short leash. His attack stopped abruptly as the chains rattled and forbade him to bash in her teeth with the damned rock. As his fingers ached to get a good grip around her ankles, the slave girl took a step back and used her heel to draw a line in the mixture of sand and hay.    
  
“Dirty bitch, you did that on purpose!” Ivar snarled frustrated, stretching his arms out in a last fruitless attempt to grab her. The aggressive flinging of his upper limbs made her retreat a few more hasty steps, but as their distance grew her cautiousness lessened. Sitting down Indian-styled, she continued to observe him with great curiosity. And by the Gods her lips twitched up humoured by Ivar’s unflattering attempts to maul her. Picking up a straw of hay, she placed it between her front teeth and tsked as she watched him wither on the floor. His outburst was riding on the last bit of his adrenaline and started to take its toll on his beaten body.    
  
Struggling to push and pull himself back into a sitting position against the boarded wall, Ivar drew his amused observer a dark glare. She did not seem bothered by it, still chewing on the straw.    
  
“If I’d have a knife on me I’d pick your eyes out for staring at me like that,” Ivar promised her with a grunt, “you have no idea what I’m saying,” he then stated when his threat did not strike any kind of reaction. 

Ivar sighed as deeply as his ribs would allow it and closed his good eye. It hit him hard; he was a captive in an unknown country, unable to properly speak with its inhabitants. He had no resources, no  _ leverage _ , here his royal name would cause him more harm than good. He’d always been a cripple, but now he was just an insignificant slave with a handicap. 

He must have drifted back into sleep, because when he woke up his unwanted companion had moved to the left, munching on a piece of bread. Two dark eyes still registered every move he made, but he no longer was her centre of attention; her meager meal was. Besides, as long as she stayed behind her makeshift line, she had nothing to fear.    
  
“I’d split your skull into two pieces,” Ivar informed her, “and drink mead out of it as I’d watch how the pigs fed off your filthy bones. I bet you’re black all the way through your core. If I’d had an axe, I’d be eager to find out!” Ivar’s words were nothing more than a cold hiss. Although she could not possibly understand any of his threats, it gave Ivar joy to at least throw them at her feet.    
  
His death threats, however, had the opposite reaction; her lips momentarily tweaked into a humble grin of amusement and she barked at him like a dog.    
  
“You’re lucky I’m in shackles, else I’d cut you a smile from ear to ear!” Ivar promised her. It only caused him more mockery and doglike sounds. Ivar’s frustration was at this point radiating off of him.   
  
“I’ll kill you!” He shouted, a cough immediately tickling the back of his throat. Ivar tried to suppress the urge, due to the pain in his ribs and the rest of his body. But it was impossible, a coughing fit tore his body apart. In a slow, torturous degree the coughs eventually eased, leaving his chest ten times more heavy and on fire. 

“Yallah,”The dark skinned slave had repositioned herself on her knees, one arm coaching him to come closer, the other one extracted, holding a wooden ladle.   
  
_ Water _ , Ivar’s burning aches suddenly seemed completely irrelevant as his good eye stared at the content. Thirst makes a beggar out of kings and in Ivar’s case; out of a prince. Like an infant he made himself crawl forwards, still lacking strength due to his previous outburst. The maiden had the audacity to make cooing noises, as if he was a startled little animal.

Pure and utter loathing must have been readable from his good eye, because she stopped abruptly when he flashed her a glare. Restricting herself to the safe side of the line, the wooden handle crossed their imaginary border between safety and harm.    
  
With slow, pain plagued motions, Ivar dragged his body closer. Leaning on his elbow, he craned his head up and allowed the wooden rim to be pressed against his dry, cracked lips. It was degrading, but being deprived from all primary necessities, Ivar drank. Greedily, he consumed every drip the maiden had to offer. It caused him to cough, but he choked through it.    
  
“More,” he half ordered, half begged while water dripped down his chin. Dutifully, she complied and held out another spoon full of water. And Ivar drank again, water drizzling from both sides of his mouth. The act repeated itself until Ivar’s stomach was full and his head felt empty. Lacking the strength and care, he sank onto his elbows and allowed his head to rest on the hay covered flooring.    
  
Everything felt scalding, his lungs seemed to be punctured by a thousand little needles. Without meaning to, his body curled up, tensing with every little cough and whimper. His lips must have split open while he drank from the wooden spoon, because he tasted blood. The coppery sensation was a small reminder of the pathetic physical state he was in. His mental state was one to match. Ivar sensed blackness taking over him and like a cold heavy blanket, unconsciousness weighed him down and soon Ivar drifted back into sleep.    
  
  


.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Something about never biting the hand that feeds you… as the writer of this fiction, I feel the need to once again address that Ivar is a thick-headed asshole who’s not kind to, well, pretty much anyone. In this case, to the slave-girl, if you feel offended, fear not, I’m not done with beating some common sense into him. It’s going to take long, but heck, I sure do like a challenge!
> 
> Sidenote: as a fact-freak I just want to add that Nótt is an actual Viking Goddess, she’s the grandmother of Thor. 
> 
> Xoxox Nukyster 


	4. Piglet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar decided to call the dark skinned slave Piglet. Because not even the many layers of rags, could conceal the stench of old sweat, animal furs and poor personal hygiene. Mud, grime and fried out animal feces clayed around her bare feet like a poor man’s shoes. 

.-.-.

Ivar decided to call the dark skinned slave Piglet. Because not even the many layers of rags, could conceal the stench of old sweat, animal furs and poor personal hygiene. Mud, grime and fried out animal feces clayed around her bare feet like a poor man’s shoes. 

To give her byname even more meaning, Piglet’s mother tongue was an incomprehensible language, far different from Dietsc. Most tones came from the back of her throat; too guttural for humans and way too heavy for such a scrawny little bitch. It made Ivar wonder if Piglet was a descendant of the Huldra; wardens of the forest. With all those layers that Piglet wore, it was easy to hide the long cow-like tail and bark covered backs that all Huldra had. 

What kind of irony would that be, such forest spirits to be enslaved by mankind. Almost as ironic as a Viking prince being sentenced into a live of slavery among Christians. 

A piece of bread made Ivar snap from his morose thoughts. As the small chunk dropped into his lap, his body reacted immediately. Hunger makes hard beans taste sweet and Ivar devoured the small bit of food. 

Piglet tore off another piece and threw it at him, hiding safely behind her makeshift line. When Ivar held out his hand for a third bit, their eyes crossed for a moment in a shared form of misery; both were hungry but there was hardly enough bread for one.

She broke it off and disappeared behind the border of the stable’s box. Ivar heard her feed the animals. It made him gnash his teeth; apparently feeding him stood close in line with feeding the cattle.    
  
Once finished with her early tasks, she threw him a half eaten apple. It wore her teeth marks and she was still loudly chewing when Ivar reached for the fruit. He threw her a glare, then his stomach rumbled and Ivar was painfully aware that maintaining his pride was a luxury he could not afford. Dejectedly, he snatched the apple from the ground, wiped off the hay and sank his teeth into the apple. 

The sound of keys being jammed into a lock, startled them both. The Giant appeared in view, causing Piglet to hurry up onto her feet. The Giant spat a word in Dietsc at her before fixing his expression on Ivar. Beady grey eyes took in the poor state of his latest purchase. A flash of satisfaction glinted in the Giant’s eyes when Ivar struggled to keep himself up into a sitting position. That contentment changed in a blink of an eye when the Giant noticed the remains of Ivar’s apple.   
  


The Giant backhanded Piglet, the force of the blow so overwhelming it caused her to stagger backwards. Clutching her face, Piglet wasn’t able to see the next strike coming. Her legs were kicked from under her feet, she dropped down on her side, quickly curling up in case more violence would launch itself down upon her. Whimpering, she pleaded some words in Dietsch, satisfying the Giant for now. The man barked an order and nudged his head towards Ivar. With an emotionless, toothless smile he repeated the order, slower this time. 

When Piglet remained a beaten down statue, he grasped the back of her neck and jerked her on her feet. For the third time, the order was spat at her while the Giant craned her neck in Ivar’s direction.    
  
Piglet nodded silently, a red welt forming on her cheek. Skittishly, she kept her arms cautiously close to her face. It visibly pleased the Giant to see his slave fear every move he made. The grip around her neck eased and Piglet dropped back on her knees.    
  
_ Heathen _ was an universal word for pagans, it was the only word Ivar could pick up from the Giant’s snarls as the man changed his focus onto Ivar and cracked his knuckles. Ivar braced himself on the floor; if the Giant would want to beat the life out of him, it would be a quick and easy fight. 

But the Giant left without another word, without keys locking the stable back up.    
  
Piglet rapidly regained strength in her legs and disappeared through the open door and returned with a bowl and two headless chickens. From a safe distance, Piglet started plucking the first chicken, starting with the tail feathers. After a few handfuls, she held up the decapitated bird and pointed at Ivar.   
  


In response, Ivar let out a cold, empty chuckle. Did that savage creature seriously think he would willingly perform chores for Christians? Even in his poor state, Ivar would rather meet his maker than become one of those meek sheeps he’d seen at the slave market.    
  


Piglet somehow mistook his chuckle for consent and she threw the chicken at his feet, followed by the wooden bowl. 

Piglet’s reflexes were spot on, she dodged the dead bird and bowl with ease as Ivar threw them right back at her. Offended, Piglet spat in Ivar’s direction and threw her eyes up skywards, uttering a throaty vowel in her mother’s tongue. Picking the chicken and bowl back up, she placed them both on Ivar’s side of the makeshift borderline.    
  


It was clear what she wanted him to do and it was clear that he made zero effort into doing so. Frustrated, Piglet stormed off, leaving Ivar in his own pool of utter frustration.

Hours went by without human contact. The flock of chickens returned, dumbstruck to find one of their peers without a head, stiff and lifeless. Clucking, the birds pecked a few times at the neck of their dead congener, but when the result remained fruitless, the chickens made Ivar their next target. He’d drifted back asleep and was brutally awoken by feisty beaks digging into the flesh of his bare feet. 

For a second time, Ivar flung his inadequate legs towards the flock. The chickens cackled, fluttering their wings in panic, but quickly learned that the new intruder wasn’t much of a threat. For the rest of the time, the chickens stayed to bother him, pecking his limbs every time he drifted back into much needed sleep. When Ivar eventually caught one of the bastards and broke its neck, the rest of the flock finally scattered off. 

A wave of freezing water soaked Ivar to the bone; for a moment he relived the night during the storm, the traumatic event made him whimper and momentarily cut off his air supply. 

“Yallah, yallah!” The alien words of Piglet made Ivar’s painful memories fade away. An empty bucket clattered onto the floor.

  
  
“Yallah!” Angered the wildling stomped with her bare feet, gesturing at the unplucked chickens. 

Ivar wiped the water from his face and narrowed his eyes: “you can stomp until you break both of your feet, but I’m not going to comply and serve a  _ Christian _ ,” he spat the last word with all the venom he could muster. 

  
Piglet did not understand his words, but the intonation and complete lack of movement made it clear the stubborn thorn in her eye wasn’t going to fulfill his task.   
  
She cursed at him, even a deaf man was able to comprehend the venom Piglet spilled in her native language; her blood was boiling. It pleased Ivar to at least be able to drive someone up the wall; even if she was nothing more than a slave, Piglet was the enemy. A meek and obedient Christian servant, therefore foe.    
  
When Ivar laughed at her, Piglet threw her hands up in the air in defeat and disappeared from Ivar’s view. He heard her footsteps climb a ladder, fleeing to the loft above the stable.    
  
Very pleased with himself, Ivar shifted, immediately brought back down to earth; now that he’d lost his braces, his legs were growing stiff and they ached continuously. The hay granted him a little bit of comfort, but he was still sitting on a cold floor of dirt.    
  
Dusk settled. Ivar was bored, uncomfortable, in pain, hungry, thirsty and cold. For a good part of the day he’d tried to squirm his ankles out of the shackles. He’d scraped his skin raw and bloody until he’d howled in frustration. He half expected the Giant or another overseer to march in to silence him, but no-one came. No-one was bothered by his frustration, no-one cared for his discomfort and aches.    
  
To keep himself occupied, Ivar called out for the wildling upstairs: “Piglet, bring me food, I’m starving,” he ordered, rattling his chains when there came no response.    
  
“Piglet? Piglet…  _ PIGLET! _ ” he shouted, pleased when footsteps hurried closer.    
  
Piglet was not amused, her brows deeply furrowed and her index finger pressed firm against her lips.    
  
“Ah, there you are,” Ivar stated and rubbed his stomach, “now serve me. I want food, you understand? Food?” He brought his hand to his lips to illustrate his order.    
  
Piglet was not impressed, nudging her head towards the unplucked chicken while giving him a long meaningful stare.    
  
Ivar snorted and leaned his head back against the wall: “forget it Piglet, you might be a slave, but I’m not. I will never do as I’m told, not by you, not by the Giant and not by anyone else in this godforsaken country.” Ivar lectured proudly.    
  
Piglet merely pointed at the chicken and tapped the side of her scalp when Ivar refused to move.    
  
“Hamar,” she spoke, shaking her head frustrated, “hamar!”    
  
And so Ivar went to sleep with hunger and thirst and a growing resentment towards Piglet.   
  
During the next morning, the same ritual as the day before carried out. The Giant was furious over Ivar’s defiance and took it out on Piglet. Ivar wondered why the colossus didn’t take his anger out on him, but given Ivar’s poor state, he might not survive another beating.    
  


Piglet had trouble sitting up and had her back turned towards Ivar. When she turned at last to face him, there were no traces of tears, she must have used those up a long time ago. Without acknowledging Ivar’s presence, Piglet wrapped her bandana tightly around her scalp and pressed a few black matted curls underneath the fabric. A sigh, followed by a few more. Piglet shifted on all fours and pressed her forehead down onto the sandy floor.    
  
“Allahu akbar,” her voice cracked a little, “Allahu akbar,” she spoke again, the words turning into a humble chant, soft and fragile.   
  
Ivar took in the entire ritual in silence, his ribs were killing him and his lungs seemed to have filled themselves with water; ironically so, since his tongue and mouth felt bone dry.    
  
“To what God are you praying to Piglet?” Ivar questioned then coughed, hackling and wheezing.    
The devotee did not respond, instead continued praying which included a series of movements; from sitting up to bowing down; her head resting on the sandy floor. 

  
When her moment of solemnity ended and she sat back up; her shoulders straightening, her eyes less rigid and wild.    
  
“Subhan Allah” Piglet whispered, her dark eyes radiated a fierce, overwhelming devotion, “Allah,” craning her head back she whispered: “Allahu akbar.”    
  


Ivar licked his parched lips and hummed, intrigued. “you’re not a Christian?”    
  


Her dark eyes narrowed into slits as she heard him speak. Snorting, she spat on the floor, shaking her head.   
  
“ _ Christian _ ,” she spoke scrunching her face up as if she’d been forced to eat something vile and rotten. “Hijabi,”she said, proudly tapping on her chest, “Muslim.”   
  
Piglet rose gracefully, barefoot and dirty, the young woman headed off to endure another day of poverty, hard labour and humiliation. But with her shoulders straight and her chin tilted high. 

.-.-.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: His days of being fed with a silver spoon are over and if he doesn’t learn fast he’ll starve to death. But Ivar is a tough cookie to break. In case some of your reading fear that Piglet will make Ivar OOC due to the fact that she’s from the opposite sex, fear not. I have no intention to make Ivar fall madly in love with her with rainbows, stars and unicorns. 
> 
> Little side information, a Huldra is a forest creature from Scandinavian folklore; a forest spirit. I like to add little bits and pieces of Scandianavian folklore/ Viking/ Religion into the story because I feel those are the things Ivar would believe in. 
> 
> Xoxoxo Nukyster 


	5. Eaten Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar had known three forms of grief in his life; the uselessness of his legs, the fact that he’d only existed in his brother's shadows. And for knowing the truth: their father intended to leave him in the forest when Ivar had been nothing more than an infant.

.-.-.

Ivar radiated heat like a brick right out of an oven. Although his skin burned with a vivid flush of fever, he could not stop shaking. His breath quivered in short, loud gasps every time he inhaled; his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigorously take in the musky air around him. The coughs and wheezing were all consuming; it was either regaining his breath while holding onto his tortured ribs, or riding out a fit. 

  
The fever must be ravishing his brain, because he saw his father peek around the wooden board of the box. Ragnar’s eyes were cold and distant; empty of life, of love. Solemnly he pressed his index finger against his lips when Ivar was about to speak. 

  
A bird with grievous eyes and tar stained wings appeared on Ragnar’s shoulder. A raven, it stared at Ivar, then everted its little head back to Ragnar. The bird then pecked its beak deep into the skin of Ragnar’s cheek.

  
His father allowed the bird to tear and rip at the loosened flesh; without a wince, without a sound, Ragnar permitted the crow to nibble off of him. 

  
A new raven hopped near, immediately attacking Ragnar’s skin, starting at the soft flesh of his calf. 

  
There was the sound of wings and from the shadows, silhouettes of ravens loomed up. More birds circled around the feast, attacking every tender piece of flesh without mercy.

  
“Father!” Ivar cried out hoarsely when the first raven pecked out Ragnar’s left eye. Ripping the nerve and blood vessels loose, the bird hopped down on the floor to eat the precious delicacy. 

  
Ragnar did not show any sign of fear nor regret and simply kept his finger pressed against his lips, while blood ran down his empty socket. 

  
The ravens grew in number, their sounds so raucous, it casted out the noise from the other animals. In a matter of seconds, his father was ripped to pieces while more and more ravens appeared, until there was nothing more than ink black feathers, beady little eyes and the clipping of beaks. 

  
“Father!” Ivar screamed, although his body wasn’t in a state to move, he dragged himself forward by his hands and elbows to save whatever was left of his father to save. But when he finally moved close enough, the birds took off, their wings merely touching Ivar’s cheek and one by one the ravens disappeared back into the shadows. 

  
Staring sightlessly into the shadows, Ivar half expected the ravens to return for their dessert. But the only cackling and rustling of feathers, came from the chickens who’d cautiously peeked around the corner from the exact same space Ragnar had been sitting. The image of his father being ripped from skin to bones, was more than a feverish dream: Ragnar Lothbrok was gone, swept away from the earth by blackness and feathers. Swallowed piece by piece, by the descendants of Odin. 

Ivar had known three forms of grief in his life; the uselessness of his legs, the fact that he’d only existed in his brother's shadows. And for knowing the truth: their father intended to leave him in the forest when Ivar had been nothing more than an infant. To be an easy prey for foxes or wolves, because what kind of life could anyone with such severe handicap have in the Viking world? Although it had been meant as a mercy kill, out of fatherly love, the truth had damaged Ivar more then both his useless legs ever could.

Ivar would kiss the ground his father walked upon and wondered for years if his handicap had been the reason for Ragnar’s disappearance. That the shame of giving life to such a pitiful human being, took its toll on the mighty Viking king and made him desert his family. Those had been the thoughts that kept Ivar up all those nights. Because Ragnar had been willing to abandon him before; in the forest. Were it not for his mother’s love, he would have been claimed by wild animals or simply died from hunger or the cold. She brought him back home; the black sheep of their family. What if his mere presence casted their father out of their lives? That guilt, for possibly being the reason his brother’s didn’t have a father in their life and their mother being all alone to rule, was an anvil resting on his shoulders. Weighing him down, crippling him more than the absence of functional legs. 

  
So, when Ragnar came back to Kattegat and asked him,  _ him out of all his sons _ , to join his raid to Wessex; the world could burn up in smoke and Ivar would still die a happy young man. 

  
But when his father meekly walked into the belly of the beast, unarmed and helpless, Ivar knew that the God he deemed his father to be, was a fraud. A saga coming to an end. 

Today. 

King Ragnar was dead, executed by a king unworthy of the title. Ivar could feel it in his bones, in his soul; a significant emptiness raided the insides of his chest, until there was nothing more than bile to rise up into his mouth. He knew his father had abandoned him for the third and last time. 

Although Ivar was clueless of how King Ragnar’s fate was sealed, he  _ knew _ his father was feasting in Valhalla. Drinking mead with the Gods, while Ivar was slowly wasting away. There would not come a heroic end to his life and so he would never see his father again. Only true warriors may enter the Valhalla and sit at Odin’s table. 

Ivar wasn’t a warrior, no he was Ivar the Boneless, the crippled offspring of a tragic legend. A handicapped useless nothing, who would have been dead a long time ago, if it wasn’t for his mother’s devotion. He’d have to settle with Hel’s realm for the dishonorable dead, in Hellheim.

  
Ivar remained in a catatonic state, staring into space and waiting, no,  _ wishing _ for the shadows to come back alive and devour him with their sharp beaks. 

  
But the only dark gap that came into view was the mouth of the Giant. The stench of decay and tooth rot, alerted Ivar who found himself eye to eye with the colossus. Piglet was hovering over the man’s shoulders with a plagued expression on her brown face. 

  
The Giant’s massive fist took hold of Ivar’s chin and shook his head from side to side. Ivar’s fingers craved to intervene, to sink their tips into that hollow mouth and pull out the last bits and piece of teeth. But his arms felt too heavy. His chest felt too heavy, heaving more quickly than it should to bring in air.    
  
The fever must be burning his sanity away, because when the Giant clutched his hands around his throat, all Ivar did was close his good eye to embrace the mercy kill. 

  
Salvation didn’t come, not in the form of suffocation.

  
It was Piglet who intervened, pleading for the Giant to ease his grip. The man seemed puzzled at first, it was uncommon for the feral slave to defy a master. His hesitance melted, like snow to the sun and with one arm he swept her to the ground. 

  
The wildling must have masochistic tendencies, because she crawled right back up to throw herself between Ivar and the Giant. 

  
Ivar pitied Piglet’s attempt to spare his life, honestly it did neither of them any good. Either the fever would burn him up, or the pneumonia would slowly take his breath away. Why extend the misery, when his death was inevitable? 

  
Her words, whatever she was saying, seemed to give the Giant a change of heart. Towering over the slave he leaned down on eye level and held up both his hands.

  
_ Ten days _ , he granted Ivar ten days to get better, else the Giant would put him out of his misery. 

.-.-.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’d like to point out that another woman’s defiance saved the life of our cute little prince. I also want to tell you that I’ve struggled dramatically with this chapter, close to banging head against screen. But I’m content with how it turned out, what I want is to give Ivar reason for being a horrible human being. Because that’s how he sees himself; as human trash, the reason his father abandoned them. So, if you find yourself so unworthy of love, why not go all the way? Why not become a monster, at least that puts you up to a spot; in a different daylight. Rather being feared than pitied. That’s what I’ve picked up from the tv show; so much rage and anger. But most rage comes from frustration, which eventually comes from grief, hurt. 
> 
> Ok, enough psycho-evaluations, please leave a message,
> 
> Xoxoxo Nukyster 


	6. Till the bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a Mara riding his chest; the demonic creature made his chest heavy; entangled his lungs and riddled his sleep with nightmares. Panic rose in waves between the moments of regaining consciousness and drifting back into the Mara’s realm of nightmares. 

.-.-.

Piglet’s will to keep Ivar alive turned out to be relentless. Her guard was high up as she crossed her makeshift line, skittish as a deer; dark eyes large and breath shallow, lips slightly ajar.   
She nearly dropped the steaming content of her cup when Ivar was caught by another coughing fit. 

  
It would have earned her a mocking laugh from Ivar’s side, were it not for the lack of strength to lift his head up. Lucidity was an ability he no longer possessed. There was a Mara riding his chest; the demonic creature made his chest heavy; entangled his lungs and riddled his sleep with nightmares. Panic rose in waves between the moments of regaining consciousness and drifting back into the Mara’s realm of nightmares. 

  
“Mother?”Ivar muttered when hands tenderly lifted his head to rest on comforting thighs, “I’m sorry, I should have never abandoned you.” Ivar’s voice was nothing more than a whimper, “father’s death… I should have died too.” 

  
His quivering lips were pressed around a wooden rim and scalding hot water was forced down his throat. The smell and taste was ferocious, that of strong herbaceous. Ivar gagged and fought, but the fever had burned away all his strength. 

  
Feebly, he arched his head to the side, but those tender hands were ruthless; merging his head in between strong thighs and pinching his nose until Ivar nearly choked and gasped for air. 

  
This cruel ritual became a routine of four times a day. Ivar was being force fed a variety of soups; broth with seasonal vegetables, soaked pieces of bread and herbs. Every waking moment was a struggle; his phlegm filled lungs were desperate for oxygen and the fever continued to scorch his body and ravaged his mind. At times he saw his mother’s morose eyes behind the dark lashes of Piglet. Every shadow seemed to be possessed by feathered creatures, their gurgling croaks keeping Ivar on edge and petrified.   
  
It took Ivar six days to fight off the Mara and regain enough strength to slap the wooden bowl away from his face.   
  


Piglet took that statement of defiance as her cue to retreat back behind the line. Her care however did not lessen; for reasons unknown to Ivar she was dedicated to nurture him back to health. It was one of the things that occupied Ivar’s thoughts. Tit for tat, in life no-one does anything without getting something in return. Ivar’s sickly condition was not doing her _any_ favours. The Giant would come by every day to inspect the coughing patient, to see if he was worth all the time and trouble. The Giant would not leave out any occasion to either bark or spit at Piglet; who’d obediently make herself as small as possible and simply take full blame for Ivar’s slow recovery.   
  
She wore the bruises of Ivar’s dreadful healing process and spent half her ration on him. She must be starving herself so Ivar could gain back little of his strength.   
  
“Stupid thrall, if you’d know what I’d do to you if I wasn’t shackled,” Ivar sneered at her as he picked on his bread; it tasted stale, but everything was better then a howling stomach.   
  
Piglet sat across from him against the wall, petting a lamb, it’s wool such a contrast to her dark arms. The lamb’s wobbly legs were still nascent and thin, but functioning well. As it’s mother bleated and the youngster squirmed to get free. Unbalanced, the lamb hobbled back to the motherly call.   
  
Ivar stared at the little legs, each one a spindle of bones and skin. Ivar channeled down to his own legs, the similarities were not to be missed. The only difference was that the legs of the lamb were able to carry its body weight with ease. 

  
Ivar’s legs were useless and deformed, twisted in odd angles due to erupting spasms and stiffness. He used to fracture them when he was a child, how could he not with so many older brothers, eager to fight and frolic, as all kids do. All kids, but Ivar, because his physical condition would not allow him to. He hated his lower body for it; the lack of muscles made his bones stick out, the skin of his shin bones translucent and delicate from being shielded off by his braces. Some of his toes were crooked and repulsive to look at. His lower body; everything from the waist down, was useless and ugly. And if he survived, he’d cut it all off. 

  
Ivar noticed Piglet watching him stare at his own deformities. She did that a lot, ogling at him from the curtains of her headscarf. It pissed him off greatly.   
  
If looks could kill, Piglet would be halfway to Valhalla, or whatever afterlife her religion offered. His scowl formed a toothy smile on Piglet’s face. Cunningly, she redrew her makeshift line on the floor with the heel of her foot, regarding her safety.   
  
“Hamar,” she addressed him, while sitting down Indian-styled. From a hidden pocket, she retrieved a handful of dumpy bones. Ivar recognised them as knucklebones from a sheep as Piglet dropped the bones on the dusty floor.   
  
Unimpressed, Ivar stared at the bones and then back up at her. It did not lessen her enthusiasm; teeth glinting as her smile grew wider. Picking up one of the bones she let her thumb rub over the smooth upper side. 

  
“Wahid,” she spoke, holding up her index finger. She then pointed at three bones, all with their stubby sides up. 

  
“Arbe,” she held up four fingers.   
  
“Sitta,” she pointed at the remaining knucklebone, with it’s ear-shaped side up and showed Ivar six fingers.   
  
“Wahid, arbe, sitta,” Piglet held up her fingers with every word and drew tally marks with her other hand on the dusty floor. “Tiseat eashar.”   
  
She was teaching him a game, one quite familiar with the game he knew as tali; the difference was that her game added up all different sides, while tali’s rule was to throw and catch the bones in various manners.   
  


Now that she got his undivided attention, Piglet hastily recollected the bones, but froze as her fingers crossed the makeshift line to pick up the last one. She held her breath and scanned over his on-edge demeanor. She left the knucklebone that had crossed the safety border and placed the recollected ones along the line.   
  
“You want me to play games with you?” Ivar scoffed, wondering if the savage lost her mind or will to live. Did she seriously think he’d _consider_ participating in any way that might make them appear as equals?   
  
“Then why don’t you come a little closer?” Ivar purred innocently and motioned her with his index and middle finger to come closer, “c’mon, I’m not a threat,” the words escaped his lips sweet as honey.”   
  
Bowing forwards, Ivar lay his hand on his stiff legs, “I am but a cripple,” extracting his arms he held up his palms and nudged his chin towards the knucklebones. “If you want me to play, you need me to get the dices, c’mon now,” he cooed.   
  
Piglet remained marble, indecisive as a startled deer, her muscles grew tense, all set to flee if provoked.   
  
“Come closer, so I can gut you like the little piglet you are!” The last set of words turned into a low growl and Ivar launched his body forwards, hands trained to adjust to the unevenness of the ground. His legs however curled up due to the pain coming from his knees, they’d still had to get used to the inevitable scraping over the floor. 

Piglet yelped and faltered back, cowering away into the corner near the door. The whimpering response of his useless attack was pleasing Ivar, although his shackles had embedded themselves into the skin of his ankles, tearing open old cuts; he roared in victory.   
  
Piglet covered her mouth with her hands as Ivar puffed out his chest and screamed again. A wooden bowl, chunks of dirty, rocks, everything within arms reach was lifted and thrust into her direction. 

Piglet managed to use her wrists as a shield and shrank further away from him. The madness erupting within the barn startled the animals and Ivar’s raging sounds were joined with the panicked bleating of the cattle.   
  
The noises alerted the masters and once the keys were turned, Ivar’s outburst came to a sudden end. 

  
Two peasants overpowered him with ease, his upper body still weakened due to hunger and overcoming pneumonia.   
  
“Don’t you dare touch me, pathetic human beings! I am a prince!” Ivar yapped and tried to sink his teeth into the wrist of one of the men. He managed to tear open his opponent’s sleeve, but the small triumph came with a terrible price.   
  
The Giant merged in between the two peasants and stomped his foot down onto Ivar’s right bicep. The immense pressure on his upper limb casted out Ivar’s rage and brought him back exactly where he was; an insignificant slave, trampled down by it’s master. Powerless, utterly and completely powerless against the men who enslaved him.

An eel slithered from his stomach up to his lungs, it’s skin touched by ice and Ivar choked up. 

  
In slow motion, the Giant craned his axe up, all the way over his shoulders. The man’s dead grey eyes did not focus on the fear stricken eyes of his victim, but on Ivar’s right wrist.   
  
Ivar felt his jaw drop and the eel must have eaten his tongue; because no words came out to express his pleads. To _please stop,_ to _please I’ll do anything_ , because if he’d lose his right hand, his entire life from this moment on, would be useless.   
  
The eel’s tail clutched his chest and slithered itself around his heart, as the Giant’s axe struck down. A crack of splintering bones silenced all sounds within the shed and Ivar felt bile rising up his throat while his trousers soaked in his own piss. 

  
Ivar expected pain, reflectively he clenched his teeth and squeezed his tear-ridden eyes shut. Bracing himself for the upcoming smell of blood, the sight of his own right hands spasming detached from his body on the floor and for fire to merge through every never of his wrist. 

But none of that came and laughter filled up the room. When Ivar dared to peek through his lashes, he saw the three men tower over him, nudging one another towards Ivar’s pathetic squirming state and piss stained trousers. The Giant’s axe rested upon his shoulder, it’s blade still impeccably clean.   


Ivar’s head snapped to the right side of his body. His right hand was balled into a fist, but still very much attached to his wrist. Beside him, laid a wooden bowl, split perfectly into two. 

The Giant’s bouldering laugh stopped abruptly and he brought the tip of his axe down to Ivar’s throat, applying just enough pressure to tear his skin.   
  
Ivar did not need to learn Dietsc to understand the meaning behind the Giant’s words as the man started to speak. The message was clear: _obey, or lose a limb_ .   
  
And Ivar did something uncharacteristic; he nodded and surrendered. It was not worth losing either his right hand or his life. Not like this, not with him and his opponent in a state like this. 

  
Ivar cradled his right hand tightly to his chest, curling up into a ball while his shoulders shrugged from grief. He’d given every bit of his willpower to remain strong, keep his head up as all Ragnarsons would. But this was simply too much. He was entirely alone in this godforsaken place, with only a wildling as a witness of his breakdown. 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A show of hands if you thought Ivar was going to lose his. I think this chapter was the beginning of the end. Sure, ever since being sold as a slave, Ivar grew hungry. And cold. And hurt. But I think in this chapter he realised quite brutally how absolutely powerless he is. How his life lost it’s value, completely.
> 
> Oh and the Mara, again I took a dive into Scandinavian folklore. The Mara is a demonic creature believed to be the bringer of nightmares. With Ivar’s fever and hallucinations it seemed like the perfect creature to summon up. 
> 
> Please share your thoughts, I’d love to know what you think of the story.
> 
> xoxoxo Nukyster 


	7. Women's Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was as if he watched the hands of someone else, because surly his hands weren’t meant to be doing such idiotic tasks. This was women’s business, preparing food.

.-.-.

A new day came while an old task remained. Ivar awoke by the sound of an unblemished wooden bowl dropping near his feet. As he pulled himself into a sitting position, two dead chickens dropped next to the bowl. 

  
“Yalla,” Piglet hurried him, wavering at the two dead birds. But in her order lay a clear plea; for reasons unknown, she did not want to see him hurt or die by the hands of the Giant. 

  
Ivar could refuse, but the dark bruises on his bicep reminded him of how much he had to lose. 

  
So, instead of fighting, Ivar picked up the first chicken and started tearing off it’s feathers. His mind was blank and he had to blink his eyes as he watched his calloused hands pluck the feathers. It was as if he watched the hands of someone else, because surly his hands weren’t meant to be doing such idiotic tasks. This was women’s business, preparing food. __

  
At least someone was pleased to see Ivar’s stubbornness deteriorate. Piglet’s humming filled up the shed while she swept the floor and fed the animals inside. 

  
The sunbeams came trickling in through the cracks of wood when their door got unlocked by the Giant. 

  
Seeing Ivar’s worn down demeanor and first plucked chicken brought out a gleam of indulgence in the Giant’s grey eyes. He dropped a sack of onions near Ivar’s feet and barked a few orders to Piglet, who’d retreated to the farthest space in the shed the moment she sensed the intruder. 

  
The Giant left the pair of them alone again. Ivar stared at the deadweight of onions, uncertain what to do with it. 

  
Piglet noticed his wonder and motioned him to throw her one of the onions, still determined to keep herself out of Ivar’s reach. 

  
Ivar did and watched the slave girl peel off the first two layers and then put the onion aside. Ivar sensed the vegetables were meant for pickling, a common way to preserve food during hard times. 

  
Once both chickens were ridden of their feathers, Ivar started his other degrading task. One that brought tears to his eyes and made his nose run. Piglet noticed his struggles while trotting along his box each time with a different tool or task. 

  
She granted him a bucket of frigid water and motioned him to watch how she dunked her onion into the water, then pointed at her eyes. When receiving a dull glance from Ivar, she clucked her tongue and with her finger drew a line from her eye to her chin. 

  
Was she mocking him? 

  
Ivar’s short fuse and pride, made Piglet hurry out of the shed, dodging unpeeled onions. 

  
But after a while of tearing up and sniffling like a wailing baby, Ivar found it wise to put Piglet’s gimmick up for the test. And indeed, the burning of his eyes lessened if he dunked the onions into the water before peeling the first layer off. 

  
The rest of the day, Ivar prince of Kattegat sulked and slaved his way through the entire sack. He’d half expected Piglet to check on him, and more importantly, provide him some sort of meal. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, by now he’d missed out on all. 

  
For a moment, Ivar’s blue eyes fixated on the plucked chickens, but reminiscing on the night before, made the fear of disobedience larger than the growling inside his stomach. 

  
His blue’s then focussed on the preposterously large mountain of peeled unions. Surely the Giant must not have counted them? 

  
Ivar took one onion and closed his eyes, focusing on any sounds that might indicate that of the Giant's return. He listened intensely, but aside the buzzing life of cattle and chickens, he could not filter out any approaching footsteps. 

  
Hastily, Ivar’s front teeth ripped off the first layer and started chewing. The sticky yellowish mass stung his eyes, burning his tongue. It’s scent rose into each nostril and he had to hold his stomach not to heave. Ivar had always savored onion soup, but for now it was causing nothing but agony on his tasting buds. 

  
He still managed to trial himself through three hole onions before surrendering to the vile stingy taste. Trying to lessen the burning sensation he brought the bucket of water up to his throat and drank greedily. 

  
“Urgh,” he shuddered and scrunched up his face, it had been a terrible idea, but it nurtured the worst bit of his plaguing hunger. 

  
“Hamar?” Piglet blurted, she blinked and made a small smile as she witnessed him spit out the best of a mouthful of onion water. 

  
Although Ivar was faithfully throwing daggers at her with his eyes, she presented him a bowl of groats porridge and a handful of forest strawberries. The gnawing hunger made him hastily hunch forward and slouch across his box as far as his shackles allowed him too. Although it was evident that he was not mobile enough to touch Piglet, the young woman stiffened and winced back while Ivar extracted his hand to snatch all food items from the floor and drag them back to his side. 

  
Growling at her, Ivar did not bother to chew the food and used both hands to spoon the porridge into his mouth. It was lukewarm, the texture full of chunks and the taste was stale, but it was the best porridge Ivar had eaten in his life. Of course expressing his delight was out of the question and once he was done he twirled the wooden bowl across the floor near Piglet’s feet. She picked it up without a sound and left him alone again. 

  
The sun casted its golden rays through the crack between the wood panels on the opposite side of the morning; soon the night sky would settle. 

  
Ivar had neatly filled up the sack with the peeled onions and dragged it as close to Piglet’s makeshift line as he could; if he could prevent the Giant coming near him then the small struggle was nothing. 

  
But the Giant did not bother to retrieve Ivar’s work, instead Piglet came in, noticed the sack and stored it aside without uttering a word. She must resent him by now, good, because he’d been insufferable to her. 

  
Someone from the outside locked the door and left them in the duskiness of the shed. Piglet moved around for a bit, but wasn’t foolish enough to go near him. Eventually, Ivar dwelled into sleep while the girl chanted her prayers. 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this was a short chapter, sort of an interlude for the next part. Some might feel that the pace of this story is slow, maybe too slow for the liking. But I really enjoy drabbling out day-to-day life and adding historic detail (like the groats meal, I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time googling ‘Dutch breakfast during the viking era’). 
> 
> If this pace is not your cookie, then I hope you stay on this ride, because there will be more gore/death for the angst-lovers. Oh and of course more beating-up-Ivar-for-being-a-little-shit, for the hurt/comfort fans. 
> 
> Xoxoxo Nukyster 


	8. Into the Abyss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although every inch of his body was clayed with mud, Ivar felt utterly exposed.

.-.-.

Another day started and Ivar woke up due to muscle cramps. A strong, painful contraction rippled through the muscles of his calves, making his feet spasm and grit his teeth. Now that he was forced to sleep on a cold damp floor, the pain and cramps came more frequently. In Kattegat, his mother would apply hot drenched skins to lessen the tension, or order a thrall to run him a hot bath. 

  
Of course such luxuries were out of the question in this damned shed. Aside from massaging and stretching his feet, there was no practical solution that would magically make the pain go away. 

To make Ivar’s morning even more sour, the Giant barged through the door. Inspecting the sack of peeled onions, an approving hum escaped the tall man’s lips. 

  
With three long-legged strides, he was right besides Ivar and sank his calloused fist inside his pockets. 

  
Ivar half expected the brute to draw a knife and gut him. But that thought could not have been further from the truth. The Giant retrieved a key, which unlocked Ivar’s shackles.

  
Without a word the Giant exited the shed, carrying the onion sack on one of his broad shoulders.

  
Ivar’s breath had been caught inside his throat, his eyes still staring at his free legs in disbelief.   
Piglet scurried around the edge of his box, eyes still groggy of sleep. That soft gleam quickly casted out once her gaze focused on Ivar’s unlocked shackles.

  
It took the both of them a moment to put two and two together. In that moment, Piglet’s hand had covered her mouth and Ivar’s jaw had nearly dropped to the floor. 

  
Then their eyes locked like magnets, one with predatory desires and the other growing out of proportion. 

  
Ivar flung forwards and chased Piglet out of the shed like a rabies maddened dog. The young woman managed to slam the door in his face and took a sprint across the muddy field, leaped over a wooden hedge and tumbled down onto the ground. 

  
Ivar dragged his body alongside the door and found himself knee and elbow deep in mud and pig feces, the murky grim did not stop him from slouching through the mess to close the distance between his prey. 

  
Ivar was about to throw himself up the hedge when Piglet squatted back on her bare feet and picked up a hoe, ready to imbed the iron blade into his skull if he dared to leap up. 

  
Piglet fumed words in her mother tongue, undoubtedly curses and stomped the wooden tip of the hoe angered on the cobblestones. 

  
Ivar only glared at her with an unrelenting stare. Baring his teeth, he barked like a dog which startled Piglet, letting the hoe slip through her fingers. 

  
He could hunch his upper body over the frame, it was not a tall fence and it was the only obstacle between him and Piglet. Although it would please him to strike out to that inferior creature, his newly learned place in this world made him pause his chase. 

  
As it was, his insufficient hunt had earned him another round of mockery and ridicule. Serfs, peasants and maidens stopped their daily labour to wonder what monster had scared the dark skinned slave girl all across the pigsty. 

  
Although every inch of his body was clayed with mud, Ivar felt utterly exposed. He’d made a fool out of himself and looked not much better then the pigs that joyfully tottered around to greet their new cage mate. 

  
Ivar tried rubbing the mud from his chin, only wiping more of it onto his face. To make his humiliation worse, Piglet vengefully emptied a trough over his head. A mixture of spoiled leftover food, rotting crops and yeasting oats dropped all over his head, face and lap. 

  
The pigs' curiosity evolved in gluttony, nearly breaking their short stubby paws to be the first one in line for the feast. Ivar had to push and pull between wiggling tails and fat bellies to crawl himself out of the circle of pigs. By the time he managed to free himself, Piglet was long gone and he found no better option than to hide back inside the shed. 

Word must have spread about his little frenzy. Ivar had dozed off a little and the cool water hit him like a battering ram. What hit him next was the Giant’s fist. It knocked him out for a brief moment.

  
He woke up while his body was dragged along by the Giant; the man’s fist locked around his ankles. Like a rag doll, he was pulled across the pigs tide and quickly the flooring changed: cobblestones made his head bounce up and down. A grey sky drifted above him, an unpleasant drizzle watered onto his face. The hazy silhouettes of an immense fortress flash by him, but the world was spinning too hard for Ivar to focus. Once his eyes did manage to focus, they focussed on one solid thing; a well. 

  
“Wait, no, no _please_ -” Ivar tried, but the Giant picked him up by both shoulders and threw him down the dark chimney.

  
Ivar’s faint cry echoed all the way down until his feet hit the surface, followed by the rest of his body. The cold water seeped through his ragged clothes and took him under. His arms made a weak attempt to keep his head above water, but soon his clothes weighed him down. He screamed, again and again and managed to smother a whimper as a bucket tied with a rope, dunked down next to him. 

  
Ivar tried to steady himself, as good as he could. Like a fish caught on a hook, he was being reeled in. 

  
The Giant sat on the stone edge, while two peasants did the heavy work. 

  
With a cold deadpan expression, the man rubbed his thumb over Ivar’s dirty cheek, then rubbed off the mud on his own trousers and tsked. 

  
Without any warning he gave Ivar a hard nudge against his chest, who’s arms flung around in desperate need of something solid, _anything_ to remain above ground. 

  
The second time Ivar hit the water was even worse, because he knew that this was nothing more than a game to his master. A sick little game to show him who was in charge, a game he might not survive. 

  
The trial of being pulled up and pushed back down repeated itself two more times, before Ivar’s illusions of surviving were gone. Once the water reclaimed him, his arms lacked the strength to resist. Soon, the oxygen deprivation took away his thoughts and like a body without a soul, it reacts to reflexes. Ivar took a breath and water started to fill up his lungs. His body grew heavy and he sank further and further into the darkness, swallowing him whole. 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So yet again, Ivar mistreated Piglet and I’m not saying he deserves being drowned repeatedly… But I certainly enjoyed writing the whole thing. I must say I’m very much in love writing this entire story, it’s rather refreshing to write about a new fandom and I love doing all the research. Ivar is a very rewarding main character to drabble about and there are a lot of options for the storyline.
> 
> Thank you again for reading and you’d make my day by leaving a comment!
> 
> Xoxox Nukyster 


	9. Caretaker

.-.-.

There was one raven in the middle of the cobblestoned centre and it was looking directly at him, its patient eyes blinked. Once, twice, drilling it’s beady eyes into Ivar’s. Opening its beak, the bird let out a throaty kraa call before taking off flying far, far away.

‘Valhala,’ was Ivar’s first conscious thought. Like the first time when he feared drowning, his father coached him through it. 

  
‘He did not abandon me,’ Ivar thought as he coughed up the content of his lungs. As a newborn, he drew his first breath; deep and shuddering. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his mind clear as daylight; his father had been the reason he’d survived yet another one of the Giant’s retributions.    
  
Ivar was brought back to the shed by his feet. His back dragged over all the cobblestones, through the mud and over the hay covered floor. Somewhere in between the cobblestones and the hay, the last fibers of his shirt gave in, leaving half his back uncovered and scraped raw. 

Once dropped to the floor, Ivar did not bother getting up. Instead he rolled on his side. Extracting his arm, ever so gently he peeled off the mud caked layer of his shirt from his battered upper back. The abrasions should be cleaned and looked at to prevent infection and scarring, but Ivar was wiser then to ask for aid. Instead he lay motionless, soaked and numb on the floor, staring into the nothingness of the shed’s shadows, begging for any sign of black feathers and beaks. 

Time no longer seemed solid, Ivar was unsure how much had passed between him being tossed back into the shed and Piglet being manhandled into view. 

He jerked his head in the direction of her faint yelps and watched the Giant throw her inside by her wrists. With miraculous swiftness, she jumped back on her heels and leaped towards the open door, only to be whipped back to the floor.    
  
It puzzled Ivar that she’d do such a foolish thing as defying her master, until he realised his ankles hadn’t been shackled.    
  
He hadn’t been shackled for a substantial amount of time and hadn’t attempted to escape. 

Piglet’s pleads were far from over, clutching her fingers around the rim of the Giant’s boot, her whimpers were eventually rewarded by a kick in the side. But the Giant did comply with her one wish and chained his crippled property back up. 

Dusk brought silhouettes and coldness and it reached inside his bones. With his clothes lacking the proper time to dry, Ivar defeatedly wondered how he was going to survive once nightfall settled in. He remembered vividly how pneumonia had nearly taken his life and how the fever had plagued his body, mind and soul.    
  
While his breath rose and fell quivering, Ivar listened absentmindedly to how Piglet’s bare feet made their way across the shed.    
  
“Hamar?” Her voice called him and when he lacked response she whistled through her teeth, “Hamar?” When Ivar still refused to acknowledge her presents, a bale of hay was tossed at his feet. Without uttering another word, the slave girl returned to her side of the shed to sleep with the cattle, leaving Ivar with her humble  _ yet vital  _ gift. 

Once Ivar was sure she’d fallen asleep, he dragged his sore body near the bale and started filling up his trousers and the remains of his shirt. Although it itched and tickled, the dry grass provided him the warmth and shelter he desperately craved.    
  
While he buried his face in the makeshift pillow of hay, his thoughts traveled back to the Great Hall. The comforting sounds of the nearby animals reminded him so much of home. Which was all he had left; memories of the prince he used to be. 

.-.-.

Due to Piglet’s generous act, Ivar decided to cut the slave girl some slack; he postponed his murder plans, for now. Of course, he didn’t want her to know that. The girl was the only person around who Ivar could unnerve. She was the only resemblance he had to home; a thrall who’d perceive him as a monster.    
  
So once the Giant unleashed him from his chains, Ivar did his best to spook her, by growling at her and make a grab for her ankles every once in a while.    
  
Although her immediate reaction was that of destress, it rapidly grew into annoyance, as both of them were very much aware that the all seeing eyes of the Giant were dead-set on catching Ivar’s disobedience. Piglet knew that as long as she was out in the open, Ivar could not harm a hair on her head. She’d even had the audacity to stomp on Ivar’s fingers once she had the chance. Her feet quickly hurried off after that, leaving Ivar to his duties. 

The Giant had given him the most humiliating task of all; taking care of the pigs. Instead of a golden crown, Ivar’s skull was soon covered with muck and grime. 

He had to provide water for the filthy animals and so he reenacted his crawl of shame; dragging his lower body back to the well. That was the easy part; getting the water back to the pigsty was the hard part. During his life, Ivar grew accustomed to carry his legs around, but he’d always had a thrall or one of his brothers to carry his belongings; sword, shield, axe. 

Now he had to pull a bucket along and he couldn’t move forwards with just one arm. He did try however, but only managed to spill half of the content. Sensing the mocking eyes of strangers witnessing his clumsiness, Ivar feared that someone would alert the Giant. Which would not have a beneficial outcome for him.    
  
So Ivar buried the last bit of his dignity and placed the handle of the bucket between his teeth, to crawl back to the pigsty; like a mule. He had to repeat the crawl once more and by the time he emptied the second bucket in the trough, his jaw ached and throbbed, while his heart bled. 

Because of course his physique by itself was laughable, him actually fulfilling tasks was a joke on its own. The few peasant maidens paused their duties of hanging out the linen to spectate Ivar’s struggles. Ivar tried to ignore the pointing and laughing, but the inevitable hurt of being ridiculed by his own peers seeped down into his chest. The repulsive undertone in their foreign tongues was not to be missed; rudeness is a universal language, one Ivar was well accustomed to.    
  
Ivar did his best to ignore them, if he were to strike at either of the two fair skinned maidens he’d probably have both his hands cut off. To occupy his murderous thoughts, Ivar continued his tasks.    
  
Feeding the pigs was a little less of a burden, the bucket Piglet previously used to defile Ivar’s head was refilled with overripe vegetables and potato peels.    
  
Ivar couldn’t help himself and nicked a carrot; the scrawny little thing did not possess much nutritional value, but it felt good to fill up that empty hole that once had been his stomach, even if it was only for a little. 

Ivar had never known true hunger, but now it clung to him like a pest-ridden man holding the hand of his beloved ones on his deathbed. It was always there, festering in the back of his mind; demolishing his willpower, making his insides cringe and making his muscles lack their normal strength. 

Piglet tossed two haystacks near the hedge and tapped a rake against the wooden fence to catch Ivar’s attention. She pointed to the small cot parallel to their shed and then shoved the hay and rake over the fence. It was clear to Ivar that she wanted him to change the pig’s bedding and while Ivar dragged the stacks along he realised the fat animals had a much more comfortable living arrangement than he did. 

  
Another personal demolisher, was the fact that he could not functionally use the rake; in order to use it properly he had to stand up, which of course was out of the question. So, instead of using the tool, Ivar was forced to scrape the piss soaked hay together with his arms and throw it inside the small wheelbarrow Piglet pulled in. 

The slave girl made no effort to help him fulfill the task and used his suffering for a humbled break from her own labour; from a safe distance of course.    
  
Now that the tables were slightly turned and Piglet felt as if she was having the upper hand, she grew a little more confident.    
  
“Yallah, yallah,” she taunted and picked up the rake Ivar wasn’t using, “yallah,” and poked him viciously between the ribs. She sniggered when Ivar swung his arm towards the rake and missed.    
  
“I swear to you woman, if we’d been between those four walls I’d be bashing that damned smile off your dirty face!” Ivar promised in a low grunt and showed his teeth: “I’d even bite your fingers off for daring to touch me.” 

But his words were meaningless as Piglet did not comprehend the meaning within them. Even his threatening intonation lost its value completely. Maybe that weighed down Ivar the most; being nothing in a foreign country, due to the overall language barrier, Ivar was utterly and completely detached from the world around him.    
  
Piglet’s rake did not know mercy and buried itself back between his third and fourth rib. This time Ivar’s starved reflexes did not let him down and regained their speed. With one swift move, Ivar managed to catch Piglet’s tool. It surprised the both of them, but Ivar was the first to recover. 

He yanked the end of the rake with might and Piglet’s confusion left her off focus; she failed to let go fast enough and was pulled down, face first into the mud.   
  
Ivar counted his blessings; the wheelbarrow blocked most of their view, so for a small range he was able to do whatever he pleased. With striking speed, Ivar straddled the squirming slave, forced her down onto her back and pressed a hand around her throat.    
  
Piglet’s dark eyes grew huge and bulged from their sockets as Ivar applied just enough pressure to enable her from screaming, yet not suffocate her enough to pass out. It was a fine balance he’d mastered perfectly. 

“Who’s the beast now, huh, little bitch?” Ivar swore and leaned near his prey, showing his row of perfect teeth, “mocking me, I should rip out your tongue for that.” Although his words withheld value, their depth was written all over Ivar’s face and casted out all strength from Piglet’s body.    
  
Her face jerked away from his, her hands faintly clenched around his wrist, but was a lost battle; even in his poor state Ivar’s vigorous upper body strength could snap all of her fingers like twigs and choke her to death without breaking a sweat. 

  
Then the most peculiar thing happened, one that made Ivar’s blood run cold. Because besides scarring the living daylight out of Piglet, he hadn’t had any intention to physically harm her. 

Piglet’s eyes rolled all the way to the back until there was only white and her body started convulsing. Shaking all over, unconscious, her head almost hitting the wheelbarrow.    
  
“Piglet? Piglet?! _PIGLET_?!” Ivar called and grasped her chin to prevent her from harming herself. He slapped her on the cheeks, which did not lessen the convulsions and white foam started seeping from her mouth. 

Ivar realised that if the slave died, she’d drag him down with her. It would not matter if Piglet’s death had been intentional or an accident, if anyone would find her lifeless body they’d know it had to be him. By Odin, the Giant would use Piglet’s rake to beat his body until it all turned into pulp. 

Unless he acted heroically and try to save her life.    
  


His body shot into action and he slithered his way towards the fence. Hunching forwards, Ivar reeled himself up and with great effort managed to sway on his feet. Puffing his cheeks, he shifted one foot to the other until he managed to stand and support all his weight on his arm and his two useless legs. 

  
“Help! I need help!” Ivar shouted and thrust his fist into the air, his other arm trembled from all the weight it had to carry, while keeping balance on the wooden frame of the fence. 

The few linen maidens once again paused their duty to glance at him, but continued their work once they realised who it was that shouted at them. Such a disfigured slave did not deserve a bat of their lashes. 

  
“Damn you vixens!” Ivar shouted in frustration and felt how his right leg spasmed from an upcoming cramp. He wasn’t going to manage to remain in this position much longer.    
  
“Help me damn it!” he shouted again and banged his free hand on the wood. His heart sank when the Giant came through the rows of drying bedlinen and stormed his way. 

“It’s because of her!” Ivar sputtered, wildly gesturing to Piglet’s convulsing body. The Giant clenched his jaw at the sight and took one massive step over the fence. The crude man used even less grace than Ivar and shook Piglet like a rag doll. After what seemed like an eternity, Piglet inhaled a sharp breath and the convulsions slowly diminished into tremors. She huddled against the wheelbarrow, eyes vacant and empty.    
  
The Giant seemed alright with the poor state of his slave and rose from the mud. His grey beady eyes then rested upon Ivar, who’d still supported himself on the fence.    
  
Although the Giant managed to step over the fence with ease the first time, the man slammed his massive hand down on Ivar’s right shoulder and used him as support to step back onto the cobblestones. Fingers dug into Ivar’s muscles like eagle claws and the brute could not leave out another chance to pester his slave. Before releasing Ivar, he gave him a sudden and hard thrust, resulting in Ivar losing his balance. 

There was nothing graceful about tripping over your own two useless feet. Ivar fell on his arse hard and barely managed to keep in a moan. 

  
“I swear by Odin, I will kill you,” Ivar promised as he watched the broad shoulders of the Giant march away, “even if it’s the last thing I’ll do.” 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this chapter was a total joy to write. I like how Ivar gives deeper meaning to the Raven, I think it’s a good coping mechanism to deal with his losses. It’s nice to feel that person near you even though they are no longer alive. Some use a gravestone, ashes, church, or pieces of clothes to feel near a deceased loved one. So why not a Raven, it’s symbolic and suitable. I hope it was your father, you poor little prince. 
> 
> I felt sorry for him, almost, but then he fucked it up by hurting Piglet. I hope that in this chapter I gave enough ‘reason’ for him to be so hostile to this girl. It’s again his ‘monster theory,’ he’d rather be someone cruel then someone who’s searching for love. Being a ‘man’ is out of the question, so he doesn’t find himself worthy of love. Instead of spending his life searching for something that’s out of his reach, he’d rather settle for being a monster. Another (twisted) form of coping mechanism. Those maidens were mocking him, that hurt, he can’t deal with that kind of hurt, so instead of dealing with it, he takes his pain out on others who are even less fortunate. Sorry Piglet, that’s you. 
> 
> Yeah, so that was my Dr Phil cookie, thanks for reading!
> 
> Xoxox Nukyster


	10. Asbet Eshr, Fifth-Theen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “your God won’t judge you for playing with the enemy, nor will mine. They seemed to have deserted us anyway. Probably laughing their arses off as we speak.”

.-.-.

Ivar still held a grudge against Piglet, but he decided that he’d stop scaring her. She was the most foolish fragile little creature and he could not afford the wrath of the Giant if she convulsed into a seizure again. For the rest of her day, he’d mainly ignored her and stopped yapping at her ankles. Piglet ignored him too, but Ivar wasn’t sure it was intentional. Whatever happened to her during those seizures, left her with a vacant stare and even though she tried, it was impossible for her to work properly. Using the rake for support, she zoned-out occasionally, allowing two chickens to escape and break an egg.    
  
Ivar noticed her struggles but decided to stay out of it, he had duties too and did not feel obligated to do any extra work. He no longer wished to charge at her, that should be a reward in itself. Ignoring her would keep him out of trouble and that was how he continued the day, keeping his hands off of her. 

As it turned out, tolerating her had its benefits; better food. That evening, Ivar received a piece of meat and an actual hot meal. It was nothing more than scraps of chicken and soggy mashed potatoes, but it beat raw onions by far. 

Ivar ate and silently observed her. Piglet was stitching up one of her rags, while the scrawny little lamb lay on her lap. The sun was setting, but provided enough light to make the needle gleam with every stitch she made. 

She was carrying a weapon around, small and brittle, but a weapon nonetheless. Interesting. Ivar stored that detail in the back of his head and wondered what more treasures she had hidden underneath those layers of clothes. 

His silent brooding did not go by unnoticed, bothered by his stern stare, Piglet frowned at him and scurried up on her bare feet. She shied away to her side of the shed, taking the lamb along.    
  
The prospect of another evening alone, cold and bored made Ivar chunk down his food fast, rattling his chains.    
  
“Piglet, I’m done eating, come here,” Ivar insisted, keeping his tone friendly and neutral. Tapping his bowl on the floor, he whistles as if to call a dog. Two dark eyes lingered around the corner of his box, startled by his unusual kindness. 

  
“Wahid, arbe, sitta,” Ivar struggled not to break his tongue on the three words he’d memorised from Piglet’s game. He picked up a chicken bone from his supper and tossed it on the floor.    
  
“Wahid, arbe, sitta,” he repeated again, nudging his chin towards the chicken bone. 

Piglet’s brows drew up, still skeptical about his sudden change of heart.    
  
“Oh c’mon Piglet, let’s play your stupid little game to pass the time,” Ivar whined and drummed his fingertips impatiently on the floor, “your God won’t judge you for playing with the enemy, nor will mine. They seemed to have deserted us anyway. Probably laughing their arses off as we speak.” 

Ivar wasn’t foolish to believe that any of the words he said meant a thing to Piglet, but as strange as it might seem, it was nice to hear the sound of his own voice from time to time. It was a small reminder of who he was, as an individual, as a human being. And it was a small act of defiance, to speak his native language in a country that bore so much hostility to his kind. Honestly, his voice was all he had left. 

  
Piglet decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and brought her knucklebones into view. She whipped away hay and dropped the bones in a circle of dirt. Viewing the positions of the bones, she drew fifteen lines in the sand: “asbet, eshr.”    
  
Ivar rolled his shoulders and tilted his upper body forwards. Piglet ogled him as he dragged his lower body forwards. She observed the way he pushed his legs into a comfortable position as he sat down near Piglet’s makeshift line.    
  
Something seemed to trouble her, her brows turned into a frown and she looked at him from head to toe.    
  
“Maksura?” Intrigued she picked up a twig and snapped it into two, then gestured back on his legs. Her forwardness made Ivar debate to put her name back on his lift of Wrath. It was ironic; all throughout his life he’d hated the leather braces that kept his legs from further damaging. But now that he’d lost them, he missed them dearly. It wasn’t for simple safekeeping, it was the lack of the straps that made him feel weak; exposed. It was so easy for others to see his flaws. 

  
Ivar attempted something uncharacteristic, he tried to brush off Piglet’s question and see it through the fingers. Collecting all the bones, he clasped his hands together and gave it a good shake before throwing them into the circle.    
  
“That’s five, five, four, three and three,” Ivar counted, remembering the specific ways of all the sides, “asbet eshr,” Ivar pronounced with difficulty, drawing fifteen lines in tally marks.    
  
“Fifteen,” he lectured, tapping his fingers down on the last line. 

  
“Fith-theen?” Piglet jabbered, repositioning herself Indian styled and tilted her head to recount Ivar’s scar; “asbet eshr, fifth-theen.” she concluded and leaned in to pick up the knucklebones. 

Ivar arched a sly brow and chuckled deviantly, enough to make her rethink her actions: “are you sure you want to be doing that Piglet?” Ivar questioned, giving his innocuous words meaning by pushing his palm to the middle of the dirt circle, pressing one of the bones into the sand.    
  
“Because if I can grab your dice, that means I can grab you, get it?” He showed her a toothy smile and slouched back against the wooden frame of his box. Now this was a game he liked; cat and mouse. 

The change of atmosphere did not go by unnoticed; Piglet’s back went stiff and deep set brows clearly made her rethink her actions.    
  
“C’mon Piglet, marvel me with your agility,” Ivar taunted, enjoying every little bit of the slave’s anguish; he could practically hear her heart galloping inside her chest. Her eyes bounced from the dices back and forth to him before she finally dared to make a move and snatched four bones from the circle.    
  
“Impressive,” Ivar clapped his hands three times, the empty sound filled up the shed, “but you need five to play your savage little game,” holding up his right hand he rolled the last of her knucklebones back and forth between his fingers.    
  
Frustration crinkled her eyes from the sight of Ivar’s taunting and huffing, she got up on her feet, slamming the four pieces of her game into one of her many pockets and roamed back to her corner of the shed. Soon her prayers chanted through the shed, probably favoring her god to smother her hostel guest in his sleep.    
  
Ivar smirked and hid the knucklebone inside his trousers. He’d gotten what he wanted; entertainment at the expense of the Christian servant. 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, he did not try to kill her, I guess I can call it progress. And they managed to learn a few words of each other's language, we’re getting somewhere.
> 
> Xoxoxo Nukyster 


	11. Wanderlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nature did not care about his disfigurements nor his short fuze; in the maze of trees, trunks and wild lands there was only one rule that mattered: to eat or be eaten. 

**  
  
**

.-.-.

  
Back in Kattegat, Ivar used to disappear in the woodlands.  _ Don’t get lost dhyrbare _ , his mother would press, conflicted by her youngest wanderlust. As a response Ivar would ignore her, keeping his chin up as he crawled out of the Great Hall, haunted by the merciless ridicule of his brothers. None of them ever earned their mother’s concern, because their legs were strong, their physique proportionate. There was no reason for any mother to fear for the safety of those capable boys. But Ivar, poor Ivar… now that one could easily be trampled down by a horse.    
It did not matter how much Ivar physically challenged himself; dueling, throwing axes, wrestling his brothers to the ground. By the end of the day, his opponent could easily jump back on their feet. His small victory diminished in front of his eyes as his brother’s ran off, leaving him alone under the watchful eyes of their mother. Poor Ivar, defenseless in a fight to the death. 

It always left a bitter taste in his mouth and so, he spent most of his time in solitude. Ivar devoted himself to setting traps for rabbits all throughout the forest, pushing his upper body to its absolute limits as an everyday battle against himself. 

At times he’d tumble down a hill, or slip into a ditch. Mother’s eyes always showed their clear disapproval when she’d tweezed out thorns from his palms and fingers. His brothers would snigger when showing off his loot and call him crazy for poaching; he was a prince after all, a precious prince, why get his hands dirty?   
  


Ivar never granted them any form of explanation for his endless wandering; it was his secret and his secret alone to keep.

In the forest, he was able to disappear. 

Nature did not care about his disfigurements nor his short fuze; in the maze of trees, trunks and wild lands there was only one rule that mattered: to eat or be eaten. 

As tall grass tickled his chin; seconds, minutes and even hours became inconsequential. Ivar could lose himself into the cycle of daylight and darkness, simply merging into the rural landscape. Nature was ruthless, it would not treat him differently; if a wild boar or wold found him, it would be a fight to the death. With no time for amused sniggering, ruffling his hair, nor a sympathizing pat on the back. Many times, Ivar would lose himself completely in the woods, silently willing that boar or wolf to appear; even if his remains would be eaten by wild creatures, he’d die with more dignity then the death that lay in his future; being smothered by their mother’s insufferable love.    
  
Cold nor rain bothered him, draped from head to toe in his cloak, Ivar simply watched the drizzle canopy the dense and tangled vegetation. Bowl-shaped plants caught rainwater, insects, snails and frogs came out from hiding. Trees would whisper, thick leaves creaking underneath hooves of skittish does, birds would jitter high up mighty oaks in the frisky weather. While munching on mushrooms, Ivar would get into contact with the otherworldly creatures; elves. He could see them, only from the corners of his eyes; like a pleasant dream they’d disappear before his perception was focussed enough to grasp their true form. 

  
They’d tease him, but not in the same tasteless way most humans did. Their soft voices were nothing more than a tingle in the air, their giggling sweeter than a songbird's chirp. The elves were tiny creatures, delicate and all female.    
  
They must have casted a spell on him, because on the green moss layered with roots, Ivar would find himself at peace; at times the forest was the only thing that silenced the raging turmoil that meandered endlessly inside his head. In the forest, Ivar did not need his legs, it was enough to simply observe his surroundings. 

A trait that had proven to be of value. He’d taught himself to be invisible and disappear into his surroundings, but his eyes and ears were always open. In Kattegat, it was merely tactical to play his brothers off against each other. Or use their secrets as blackmail to get things done. 

Now this trait could be essential. Because if Ivar’s captivity taught him one thing; it was that it’s useless to put up a fight. He was completely outnumbered, weakened, starving and in constant pain. But that did not mean he was giving up. No, what would the Gods think of him if those Christian bastards managed to break his spirit? Hel wouldn’t even care to take him in and he’d spend his entire afterlife in the same pitiful place as he was right now; down at everyone’s feet.    
  
Ivar did not pledge to kill the Giant to nurture his anger. No, he’d made a solid commitment to end that man’s life in the worst way possible. But if he wanted to succeed, he needed more than a weapon. What he needed was the perfect opportunity and an escape plan, because he certainly wasn’t planning to die on Christian soil. No, the Gods must have more in store for him. He did not survive all those drownings for nothing. Surely his father did not layoff his feast in Valhalla for nothing, there must be greater meaning to Ivar’s survival than to waste away in a pigsty. 

So, Ivar would keep his head down and quietly observe his surroundings, keeping his eyes and ears open at all times. 

Piglet had managed to inform him about their whereabouts using her hands and feet. ‘De Haar,’ was the name of the castle and although Ivar hadn’t been able to see past the courtyard, the majestic towers and ramparts, moats and gats were drawn to him. Their shed was, like all the other peasant huts, banished from all beauty but was protected by the outer walls that surrounded the entire fortress.

Today Ivar was tasked with a new burden; cleaning various dirty cauldrons at the well. Although the work was boring and repetitious, it gave Ivar a perfect hiding spot at the well. While scraping the insides with sand and an old rag, ridding the iron of all caked up layers of food scraps, Ivar became a quiet observer.    
  


By noon he’d learned that in order to reach the centre of the castle he needed to use the nearest side entrance. The linen-maidens walked in and out, using that entrance. Surely such expensive bed material wasn’t used for the common folks. The Giant’s chambers must be somewhere behind that side entrance.    
  


Ivar also learned that Piglet was as much an outcast as he was. The linen-maidens didn’t give her the time of day and jerked their freshly folded linen away as Piglet passed them, as if her dirtiness would turn into a shadow itself and spoil their hard work. As noon passed, Ivar kept an eye on Piglet; she took her task as caretaker of the cattle very seriously. At dawn, she routinely took the animals to another paddock across from the well. The grass was taller there and a perfectly planted tree provided enough shade and sun. Scraping hooves, checking eyes for possible infection, petting their furs; the cattle all got their proper share of attention.    
  
A harsh smack on the back of his head brought Ivar back to his place; cleaning cooking material. A task he’d dared to pause for a moment and of course his master was eager to make him remember that there was no time to spend lazing around. The Giant granted him another degrading job; cleaning the chamber pots. Thank the Gods, all of them were already emptied, but still the stench of human waste made Ivar retch and shudder. 

.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So yes, back in the day Ivar spent much time tripping balls in the woods. If you read between the lines, Ivar was pretty much a lonely, depressed teenager, waiting for an encounter in the forest so he could die with dignity. I’m not saying ‘suicide’ but it comes close to mind. It’s sad really how a large part of his family ignored him, while his mother tried to smother him with love. Family dynamic at its worst if you ask me. 
> 
> Also, Castle De Haar is a real Castle. I’ve been there a few times, time-line-wise a Viking could not be in the Castle, because it wasn’t built during their era. But hey, it’s my fic, my rules. Check out the Castle if you like, it’s stunning! 
> 
> Xoxoxo Nukyster 


	12. Wahid, Arbe, Sitta.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a very early age, Ivar had learned that embarrassment wasn’t an emotion. No, it was a weapon wielded without a trace of pity.

.-.-.

At the end of the day, Ivar felt in desperate need to cut himself out of his own skin. Every inch of his body reeked; from sweat, blood, animal dung and to top it off; other people's waste. The palms of his hands riddled with blisters from scraping, some already popped open and bled. There was barely anything left from his already sullied clothing. His trousers scraped to bits and pieces from moving around without braces, knees a mush of mudd, blood and thick exudate. The skin surrounding it was hot and swollen.    
  


Shackled, in the safety of his box, Ivar tried to rid his knee wounds from further infection. With dirty fingers, he gently pressed down on one of the largest lumps that had formed underneath the swelling. A bubble of pus oozed up and Ivar had to grit his teeth in order to keep himself silent. He dropped his head in frustration; after surviving drowning and pneumonia was he destined to watch his body rot away from infection? 

A shadow glided over Ivar and for a moment he feared the Giant’s return. But it was Piglet returning the cattle for the night. She watched him shy away with mild amusement; she’d had a first row seat when Ivar had been hurling over the chamber pots. The glance of mild amusement changed and turned into a state of alertness as her dark eyes fixated on his bloody knees.    
  
Without a peep, she ushered the animals into their box and disappeared for a while. Ivar did not pay much attention to her when she hurried out of the door, his distress was all consuming. He did not react when Piglet poured a few buckets of water into the trout of his box and kept plucking on the scabs of his badly healing knee. The slave tottered back and forth and eventually disappeared up the attic of the small shed. 

On cue, the door was being locked for the night and Ivar let out an exhausted gasp, tilting his head backwards to rest against the wooden frame. His lids nearly closed, but opened wide when he noticed a soft light brightening up the dark shed.    
  
It was that of a candle, held like a treasure by Piglet, carefully coming back down from the attic. The candle was small, no bigger than a chicken’s egg, the flame however burnt neatly amid the dusty wax.    
  
Elevating the tip of her candle, Piglet dropped some of the wax on a stone near the trout and motioned Ivar to come close. Ivar failed to find the deeper meaning in the strange new ritual Piglet was carrying out, but since he hadn’t had a decent meal today he hoped it had some food in store. To keep his knees from scraping over the floor, Ivar lay down on his side. Moving at a snail’s pace, he wondered how he was going to carry out any tasks in the morning.    
  
During Ivar’s crawl, Piglet dunked a bundle of rags into the trout and threw one into Ivar’s hands once he’d positioned himself near the makeshift line. 

“Yallah,” the slave whispered, gesturing on the candle. The small flame flickered by her sudden movements and grew dimmer than it already was. Ivar failed to understand her rushed demand and stared at her wide-eyed. 

Piglet pointed at his face and armpits and Ivar understood that she wanted him to wash himself. When he did not jump into immediate action, Piglet grunted something under her breath and rolled her eyes heavenward.    
  
“Yallah hamar,” she yanked at the brim of her own skirt, pulling it an inch down and motioning him to react to her order. 

Of course Ivar understood her demand; she wanted him to undress and clean himself up for a bit, however he failed to understand why it was any of her business. The stench coming from her body and rags was one to match. And that aside, he did not feel comfortable getting naked in front of the dark skinned maiden. As a viking and a youngest of three older brothers Ivar was accustomed to naked flesh. Or sex, for the latter. It was impossible to ignore the heated moans of his brother fucking one of their thralls into the great oblivion. Nudeness, sex, it had never been a taboo in his household. 

  
However, his own few fruitless attempts to please a woman had been more like painful embarrassments. His impotence was another sign that his body did not function properly, as he’d mentioned before; if he survived, he’d cut everything off from the waist down. Because facing the facts, he wasn’t even half a man. 

By now, the frustration was radiating off of Piglet and grunting underneath her breath, she disappeared into the next box. When she returned she was holding a lifeless chicken. The bird was barely breathing. Piglet brushed aside some of its feathers and deep infected peaking sores came into view, the stench of the wounds hitting Ivar’s nostrils a moment later.    
  


Piglet pointed at the tattered bird and then to Ivar’s bloody knees. He did not need a moment more to understand her comparison. For the bird it was too late, the stench would soon attract flies and maggots would be eating the poor thing whole. It would be cruel to leave the chicken alive and so Ivar stuck out his hands. Somehow, he’d expected Piglet to be prepared when he snapped the neck of the plagued bird, but she flinched and her huge black eyes grew morose. She cared for the animal, not just for the sake of being beaten. She mourned its death. It was a peculiar thing for Ivar to witness, because he lacked that specific sensation; empathy. 

  
The flame flickered again in that vulnerable way fire could, the nascent flame being pushed by a breeze coming from the cracks between the wood. It would not take long for the light to be taken by the cold of night. 

“Yallah!” Piglet hissed, now through her gritted teeth and Ivar complied. Hurriedly, he peeled his begrimed tunic over his head and began scrubbing the skin of his face and upper body. Self consciously, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting Piglet to be ogling every move he made. But to his surprise, the maiden was petting the dead chicken, caressing its feathers and whispering softly to the carcass.    
  


Seeing Piglet being so preoccupied, allowed the tension in Ivar’s shoulders to ease for a small while. Hurrying, he pulled his arse up and wiggled the remains of his trousers down his thighs. A hiss managed to escape his lips when the material slid over his battered knees. He started to cleanse his lower half. Sitting stark-naked in front of Piglet made his self consciousness leap towards an endless black void. 

From a very early age, Ivar had learned that embarrassment wasn’t an emotion. No, it was a weapon wielded without a trace of pity. It was an easy tool for torment and it had struck Ivar time after time. For him it was cataclysmic; and he knew his face was burning bright enough to outshine the sun in the midst of day while his mind scattered like a scared deer.    
  


He heard her move behind him and although he knew she wasn’t foolish enough to come any nearer, he felt so completely and utterly exposed it made his breath hitch in his throat. Although he told himself firmly it was the cold that made his fingers twitch and jitter, deep down he knew the truth; it was his embarrassment. The absolute and complete destruction of his already damaged ego. Fair maidens his age never looked at him the right way and although Piglet wasn’t anything like the female population of Kattegat, she was a woman. One able to stare at every little detail of his body. 

But when Ivar glared over his shoulder, he noticed how Piglet’s dark eyes did not linger over his groin, her gaze was instead fixated at Ivar’s right knee, both brows sunken into a stern frown. She threw him another long rag and pointed at the sticky exudate oozing from the wound. Ivar compiled without a word and started to swathe the damaged part of his knee.    
  
Piglet watched him lift himself up and dress back into his reeking attire. In the flickering of yellow, her skin was truly the color of nightfall. Besides the glints of her teeth and the whites of her eyes, she was but her own shadow. 

Since the day he woke up in the shed, Ivar wondered about the reason behind Piglet’s selflessness. She’d suffered due to him, taken beatings yet she’d shared her food and saved his life. It made no sense in Ivar’s head, who’d developed complete emotional indifference over the years. The overall rejection from his peers, father and townsfolk had turned his heart into stone, it was no longer an easy thing to break. More than once, he’d asked the Gods to turn him blind and deaf too. Because he couldn’t stand any of the glances of disdain and mocking words. It made his world pitch-black and empty, so why not take those senses away?    
  
Four knucklebones dropped near his feet and Ivar’s somber eyes met Piglet’s pleading ones. Dumbfounded, he picked up one of the small bones and something flashed beneath the surface of his hardened expression. In the flickering candlelight it hit him; Piglet’s reason.   
  
All she wanted was a companion. 

She was an outcast, just like him. Spit upon, downtrodden and shunned. Her empathy and nourishment hadn’t been driven by pity or due to his royal blood. No, she saw him as an equal, both burdened by the same faith. 

A smart man once said:  _ the enemy of the enemy is my friend.  _ And wouldn’t it be tactical to have at least  _ one ally _ in a place riddled with foe? She had two well-equipped legs, knowledge of the fortress and clearly lack of judgment if she was seeking a friend in him. She could be of use, a benefactor to his masterplan. Of course his plan only had basic outlines up to this point; kill the giant and escape. But bringing a useful second party into the picture…   
  
Ivar managed to morph his wolfish grin into a polite smile and conjure up the one knucklebone he’d previously stolen from Piglet. For a moment, he let the bone roll between his fingers and spoke: “wahid, arbe, sitta,” before throwing it together with the other four. 

Piglet bore the facial expression of one being granted a great gift. There was a hint of victory in her smile, surrounded by dimpled cheeks. 

A battle seemed to be won and Ivar played along; letting her think she’d gained his sympathy and trust. What a foolish little lamb, gullible and too blind to see that she was sitting with a wolf in sheep’s clothing.    
  
Ivar managed to hide all his mischievous, hostile thoughts behind a blank expression and they played her game. Until the small flickering flame grew dimmer and the wax melted down to its last. In an instant, they were left in utter darkness. But it was the first time Ivar saw some hope for his future. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: so this chapter was supposed to turn everything a little more kumbaya and lovely dovely. But dear Ivar is more of a sociopath than I thought and guess what he’s just taking over the storyline. Nop, he’s not letting people close, he’s too damaged/proud/frustrated to allow that.  _

_ Although it turned out different than I thought, I really liked writing this chapter. In particular, the bit where Ivar overthinks his embarrassment and shyness. In the tv show, I liked how he’s a mix of pretty much every strong emotion and just lets it all explode. Everything fuels out, anger, sadness, anguish, hate. Oh and don’t forget the self hate towards his own body. I hope I can manage to add that toxic blend of emotion into my story.  _

_ Feedback/thoughts/comments are always highly appreciated! _

_ Xoxox Nukyster  _


	13. Nail to the cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Piglet were stored away in the back of the chapel, far away from the altar and crucifix. While the slave maiden used her precious free time to close her eyes and doze off, Ivar used his for observation. 

.-.-.

The Giant revealed himself to be a very faithful man. As a true Christian, he cherished the evangelical and found it necessary to spread the word of his God. The devotee put all his subjects through the torture of the Sunday services. Every soul living in and near the Castle was packed into the Gothic splendor of the chapel, built safely within the stone walls of the fortress. Heavy iron bound doors welcomed all attendees, even the forced ones. 

  
Ivar and Piglet were stored away in the back of the chapel, far away from the altar and crucifix. While the slave maiden used her precious free time to close her eyes and doze off, Ivar used his for observation. 

  
It surprised him that the Giant wasn’t the master of the castle. The colossal being sat on the second row and made a cross to the statue of the supposed virgin and child. The first row was still empty and remained empty until the very last moment.   
  
The ecclesiastical tones and whispers hushed simultaneously as a couple strolled in. Every single soul inside the chapel stood up, all except Ivar of course, who did his best to peek alongside elbows and hips to glaze at the pompous couple. The woman, draped from head to toe in silk with jewelries to match the expensive material, appeared bored out of her mind. Her second chin wiggled with every step she took. Her husband’s belly was as bloated as his ego and was held in place by a leather belt engraved with gold and rubies. 

  
Ivar’s face fell as he realised that those two spineless, overindulged royalties were his rulers. Of course he’d rather get the plague than bow to the Giant, but at least the man had an imposing build and a personality to match. These two obese creatures matched in size with the pigs he took care of. 

  
Piglet awoke from Ivar’s squirming to see passed all the bystanders and noticed his focus on the couple. 

  
“Duke de Haar,” she whispered near Ivar’s ear, “Duchesse de Haar,” she carefully gestured towards the woman before rigorously spitting on the floor. Piglet’s hostile reaction pleased Ivar, as he was forced to participate in a Christian ritual, it was nice to at least sit with a kindred spirit.

  
The service was endless, the priest mustered up words in such a dreadfully toneless voice Ivar had to pinch himself to stay away. By the time the man slapped the musty old prayer book shut, Ivar had counted all of the sixty two candle holders twenty seven times. But that was not the end, not by far and Ivar feared he was going to lose his mind underneath the eyes of the apostles printed into the stained glass of the high arched windows. 

  
As a coin box passed between the rows, Ivar was plaguing his brain; the chapel had a few define scents, most he could place. Incense, flowers, musty stench of human sweat. But all weren’t strong enough to mask the rotting scent of flesh in an advanced state of decay. 

  
Piglet’s eyes reopened and captured Ivar’s scrunched up nose. Yawning, she patted her bare foot on the marble flooring. Ivar drew his gaze down and noticed the imprinted handwriting in the stones. Although he could not read the words, he did notice similarity in the lines and numbers. 

Piglet noticed his struggle to put two and two together. She clutched her own throat and let her eyes roll back, then tapped her foot back down on the floor and waved her hand near her nose. 

  
Ivar’s eyes enlarged in disgust, were they sitting on top of rotting corpses? Did these people not give their dead a proper burial or burn their bodies? Why keep their corpses so close to their holy house? 

  
Biting his lip, Ivar tried to will the stench away, but it was all consuming now that he knew the origin of it. Subconsciously, his fingers started to drum on the wooden pew. When he received angered glares from the peasants left from him, he let his fingers slide underneath the seat and clutched at the wood. Puffing his cheeks, Ivar wondered how long he still had to suffer through this Christian nonsense. 

  
The people around him rose on their feet singing hymns for their one God. Ivar rolled his eyes while his fingers continued their drumming. Until a pinprick in his index finger paused his frustrated fidgeting. 

  
There was a nail sticking out, right underneath his seat. Ivar inched forward and twined the nail between his thumb and index fingers, giving it a proper tug. The nail moved underneath his fingers and for the remaining time Ivar stretched the nail around and around. 

  
As the churchgoers stood up for the last time, the nail finally gave in and quickly Ivar clasped his hands together, the rusty weapon-to-be safely hidden inside his palms. 

  
Piglet brow rose up by his sudden devotion and snorted, probably seeing his act as a betrayal to their shared hatred towards the Christians. 

  
“Amen,” the slave maiden hissed through her teeth with enough disgust it could have been poison. 

  
The service ended and slowly the Duke and Duchess rose and exited the chapel. Common folk followed like meek sheep. Piglet and Ivar were one of the last ones inside and Ivar took his time ‘getting up’ before sliding down onto the marble floor. With all the ogling eyes of the Churchgoers still fresh in his mind, he tried to silently leave the house of the false God. Piglet loyally walked by him and hissed cattishly to a few scampering kids who were about to throw pebbles at the two of them. 

  
It was degrading to have a thrall fighting his battles, but Ivar endured the shame in silence since he needed both hands to drag his lower half across. Due to the wounds on his knees, he had to slide on his side and it took the pair forever to get back to the pigsty. 

  
“Ya Hamar...” Piglet’s voice was filled with compassion as she noticed how his trousers were giving up completely and lay torn and ragged over his scraped thigh. 

  
Ivar eyes scolded at her and briefly flickered passed her as he noticed the form of the Giant approaching. Alarmed, Piglet turned around, saw her abuser and rapidly scattered off to her duties. Ivar wasn’t so lucky, he had no time to escape. At a snail’s pace, he tried to reach the pigsty, but the Giant caught up with him. Ivar’s arms were being kicked from under him and his chin hit the cobblestone floor. 

  
His blood hummed in his veins as he overheard the Giant’s amused laughter. Cocking his head up, Ivar was just fast enough to raise his elbows in front of his face as the Giant’s leather boot aimed for his cheekbone. Determination and anger took over as the Giant drew his boot back and stomped it into Ivar’s stomach. His guts smashed together, bruises formed. But he was not going to make a sound. No, he was going to suffer in silence and take the beating like a man. The battering did not continue for long as Ivar played dead, the Giant quickly lost interest.

  
Hands the size of shovels dragged him on his feet with ease. Ivar was shoved over the wooden fence of the pigsty and submerged into the gritty muck. 

  
Feeling water and pig’s urine seep through his haphazard clothing, he allowed his chest to gently rise and sink with every shallow breath he drew in. Laughing cackled over the muddy field and if Ivar had any say, he’d allow the earth to open up and swallow him whole. 

  
That man standing behind him was a monster and besides despising the Giant, Ivar envied him. Once, he’d been standing on that other side of the fence, being the one torturing his thralls and peasants. As Ivar’s face lifted from the mud, it was like looking into a mirror. 

  
Glee, satisfaction, it all radiated from the Giant’s smoldering eyes. An Alpha, a dominator of the weaklings, the unworthy. 

  
Ivar was staring up at a monster, so close to his own image. Yet, so far away from what he’d become. Because he was the underdog now, the pariah and the _victim_. 

  
His fists punched the murky floor as he was left to fulfill his duty; taking care of the pigs. Within his right fist the nail dug deep into his flesh and he made himself a sincere promise; this was the first of many he’d be using to nail that bastard to his holy cross. 

.-.-.  
  


 _A/N: Yes, so I’d like to point out another ‘fact’, in Holland we have a saying ‘rijke stinkerds’ which roughly translates into ‘filthy rich’. Which is the fact of this chapter, the rich used to be buried inside the church, but lacking proper air conditioning...the place at times could stink due to all the rotten bodies (badly) buried underneath the marble._   
_  
Hope you’ve enjoyed the chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it._

_Xoxox Nukyster_


	14. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar realised he was stuck in an endless cycle; scraping his knees open, fixing them up, only to scrape them raw and bloody the next day again. The wounds wouldn’t even have time to scar, if he continued this path, they might scrape all the way to the bones. 
> 
> If gangrene didn’t get to it first. 

.-.-.

Ivar’s shoulders were slumped and his eyes casted down into a mournful gaze. He’d hidden himself in the back of his box. After he’d fulfilled his duty, one of the peasants had dragged him inside and shackled him up. 

  
With mud-splattered hands, he braided small figures from hay and stored them underneath a loose part of the wooden panels. It gave his twitching hands something to do and his storming mind something to occupy his despondent thoughts. He’d hidden the nail safely in one of the figures, better safe than sorry. 

  
His mouth was set in a semi-pout, it was late and he hadn’t been fed all day. Instead of anger, his chest was dominated by a profound sadness as fatigue and pain plagued his body. 

  
Due to his efforts involving the pigs, his knees were bleeding again and his clothes wasted away. He looked and smelled no better than the animals he needed to tend for. 

  
Lonely, he huddled together and drifted off into the memory of his previous life; that of a prince, that of a son. But the remembrance of his profound status and mother’s love, gave him melancholy instead of a brief escape from reality. 

  
Piglet returned from her tasks and granted him a meal; a mush of vegetables and potatoes. Lard gave it some taste, but food remained overcooked and stale for the most part. 

  
Piglet was sewing potato bags as he ate in silence. After his meal, she refilled his trough which allowed him to rid himself of most of the mud. Scrubbing the filth from the wound on his knees, Ivar realised he was stuck in an endless cycle; scraping his knees open, fixing them up, only to scrape them raw and bloody the next day again. The wounds wouldn’t even have time to scar, if he continued this path, they might scrape all the way to the bones. 

  
If gangrene didn’t get to it first. 

  
His body would be rotting from the outside in, while his solemn thought would eat him whole. 

  
“Hamar?” 

  
Ivar was brought out of his thoughts when one of the potato bags dropped into his lap. It had four holes on each side; a smaller one on top, two at the sides and a large one at the bottom was torn completely. 

  
It was a tunic, the most basic piece of garment Ivar had ever seen. But it was fresh and clean, something to cherish. Piglet watched him from across his box as he changed his rags for the tunic. She got on her knees near the makeshift line and placed two more bags and a clean rag over it. 

  
She pointed at his knees and back to the materials, indicating their use. Ivar crawled close and used the rags to cover his wounds and then tied the potato bags around his knees. It didn’t come close to the protection of his braces, not as efficient and thick, but it would protect him during his everyday chores and crawls. 

  
Ivar’s fingers tightened around the robust fabric and entwined it around his legs, pulling them firmly together. It was easier for him to move around without either of his legs bumping into things. 

  
Piglet admired her efforts being used and approved.

  
“Hamar,” she’d rose to her feet with a brief bow of the head and yawned while waving, indicating she was heading off to her box for the night. 

  
“Piglet, wait,” Ivar slithered to the edge of his quarter to pause the maiden, “please call me Ivar.”    
His intonation visibly surprised her. Piglet turned on her heels and tilted her head to one side while listening to his foreign words. 

  
“It’s my name. I’m Ivar,” tapping on his chest he wished the slave to understand his words and the meaning behind them, “please call me Ivar.” 

  
“Ivar?” A lackluster smile spread across her face, causing her dimples in her cheeks, bearing her teeth she repeated his name: “Ivarrr,” with the snarling of a dog, “Ivarrr.” 

  
Sniggering to herself, she retreated to her side of the shed, still growling his name with the  _ r _ rolling off her tongue. 

.-.-.

The revelation of his name constructed a pathway through their speech barrier and skepticism. It was still a balance on pins and needles, but in between their labour they exchanged brief small-talk.  _ Comfort _ was a seldom gift, but Piglet’s voice brought some enlightenment as she pointed and gestured to animals and objects, naming them in her own deep-throated language. Ivar’s tongue tied itself into knots once he tried to repeat her idiom and she, more than once, ridiculed his flaws. She was a lot quicker at picking up the words of the Viking and she’d proudly pronounced all the animals in his language at their shed. However, her name remained a mystery. Every attempt, hit a deaf man’s ears. On various occasions, Ivar had tapped his fist to his own chest while speaking his own name, before pointing to Piglet. He knew she understood his action but refused to give a proper reaction, instead she played dumb and would repeat his name with a rolling r:  _ Ivarrrr. _

  
Although they spent quite some time together, Piglet had something mystical. Behind that curtain of stench, was mystique; the pigment of her skin and darkness of her eyes and hair was otherworldly and Ivar caught himself staring at her body wrapped in layers of filth. Wondering if her anatomy matched the women from his village, still curious as to if she had a tail or not. 

  
Every evening, she’d dutifully refill his trough so he’d be able to wash, but chose to remain filthy and reeking herself. Caked in animal dung and mud, her feet would skitter off when Ivar would throw a handful of water in her direction, in a weak attempt to make her freshen up. She was absolute torture to be around due to it and Ivar would, many times, scrunch up his nose and make it very clear what he thought about her poor personal hygiene with gestures and gagging sounds. Her dark and patient eyes would take it all in and she’d smile at him like a simpleton until Ivar gave up and simply dealt with her body odor and untamed characteristics. 

  
They’d play the knucklebone game until nightfall, when they weren’t able to make out the shapes of the bones any more. Piglet was able to count up to sixty in Ivar’s language with ease, while Ivar stuttered his way from one to ten in Piglet’s. Both of them refused to speak anything in Dietsch and in all honesty, Ivar would rather bite off his own tongue than to familiarise himself with the language of the enemy. 

  
One afternoon found the both of them sat against the wooden fence of the pigsty, enjoying a moment of ease and sun. A cart pulled by a donkey passed and Ivar pointed at the animal.

  
“Donkey,” he explained, “that’s a donkey.” 

  
Piglet had been biting on a long straw of hay. Her lips formed themselves into a halfway smile, while chewing on the end. 

  
“Donkey,” she paused and threw him an sideway glance, pushing herself swiftly upon her feet, “hamar.” 

  
Ivar’s face fell and his mouth dropped: “have you been calling me donkey?” 

  
Piglet spat out the straw and took a few steps away from Ivar: “hamar, donkey,” and tapped against the side of her skull: “thick-head.” 

  
Baffled, Ivar stared at her back as she hurried off. “Dirty bitch,” he grunted underneath his breath. 

  
“Donkey,” Piglet addressed him back before continuing her work with the cattle. 

  
During the course of weeks, their dynamic gradually changed; their relationship no longer hunter and prey, both very aware that Ivar was fully depending on her in order to get through the day. Piglet would not in any way address it, but she had an upperhand in their relation. Every afternoon, Ivar would be chained up. Immobile and frustrated, he’d have to wait for her return in order to eat, drink and clean himself. The potato bags around his legs would tear with ease during the hard labour; being dragged and torn over cobblestones, wood and through mud. Piglet would silently knit and sew the fibers of Ivar’s only protection up while he sulked and brooded in his corner; eating the food she could spare and drinking the water she’d share. 

  
This evening was like all the others, both the slaves were locked inside their shed. Ivar’s chains rattled due to his inability to keep his frustration under control. He’d been changing the pigs’ bedding and in the process, grazed his hand on a piece of splintered wood. A fraction of the wood still remained embedded in the palm of his hand, causing him great discomfort and further lessened his mobility. 

  
He was quite proud of his hands; his strongest assets and perfect murder weapons. Yet they were incapable of finer motor skills. His broad and callus fingertips were inept to draw the splinter out. 

  
More proof of his inabilities and another form of self-loathing erupted from Ivar’s chest, coming out from his lips as bitter sounds. 

A chuckle forced its way out, for he was so laughable and incompetent. Shaking his head over his own misfortune, Ivar figured he might as well chew his arm off, but that would give the Giant too much satisfaction. 

  
Piglet, once again, showed herself to be of good use and silently placed her needle onto the wooden edge of Ivar’s trough before fleeing to her side of the shed. Her serene chants filled the small space, while Ivar pulled himself across and eagerly made use of her needle. 

  
It took him a while, but before the place turned too dim, Ivar managed to draw the splinter from his palm.

  
Retreating back to his side, Ivar hid the needle inside one of the straw figures he’d made. Now he had two nails for the Giant’s coffin.

.-.-.

_ A/N: Ok, so I think it’s safe to say Ivar sharing his name to Piglet was cute af. And I love that Piglet gave Ivar a proper nickname, ‘hamar’, shows she got some sass.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ For you guys who’ve been faithfully commenting/ reblogging and liking my fic, I’d like to thank you all a lot. The last few weeks have been rough and this story is my personal way of detaching myself from all the mess that’s going on. So kudos to you all<3 _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _

  
  



	15. Revenge is served best in a silver bowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the mass of people Piglet suddenly stepped in view and took place next to him, giving him a sympathetic smile before giving him an even greater gift. 

**.-.-.**

Ivar’s restricted life inside the castle walls caused him to lose grip on time. His arrival had been in late summer, but the endless routine of waking, working and sleeping all seemed to morph into one infinite circle. 

  
In Kattegat autumn always dressed herself in the most vibrant hues, her boldness always as surprising as bold. Leaves would scatter the woodlands, roam the streets and bless their city with her beauty. Ivar thought back with fondness how the autumn flooring would crisp and dance underneath his hands. Autumn’s colors would be a red-flag, a warning for winter nearing.

  
In castle de Haar Autumn’s only sign was her coldness. And the deterioration of fresh and nutritious food. Of course Ivar’s lower range would be the first to suffer, as always the riches stayed fat and warm, due to the hard work and suffering of the common folk. 

Besides the cold, there was another change in the atmosphere. Ivar hadn’t been able to place his finger on it, but something was happening inside the castle. At the courtyard the linen maidens would whisper more cautiously and heartened, the beehive of peasants running arants seemed to have doubled. The Giant’s short fuse had vanished completely and the brute could explode for no reason, making everyone lower in rank tiptoe on eggshells. 

  
Piglet knew what was going on and it affected her dearly. She’d skitter over the courtyard as a frightened doe, dark eyes always hastily scanning the crowd. No longer did she allow herself a nap during the Sunday serves, in fact Ivar wondered if the maiden even slept at all. 

  
On a few occasions Ivar tried to ask Piglet about her obvious dread, but lacked the proper words. She’d meet his stutters with a dull look on her face and stiffened lips, playing the simpletone again. It bothered Ivar, boiled up his frustrations, because he knew she  _ knew _ he tried to be civil and showed her some form of consideration. Instead of being grateful for his effort she ignored him, no even worse, made him feel like a fool. 

  
So after a few attempts Ivar grew tired and figured out that the source of everyone’s torn in the eye would soon reveal itself. 

  
It did, actually  _ he _ did. The only fruit of the loints of the Master of de Haar. Their royal blooded son came back home for the winter. 

  
Of course this all passed Ivar by, his world was no bigger than the shed, the pigsty and the well. He missed the arrival of his master's son, but was aware of the major chaos erupting within his small world. 

  
All of a sudden, his main tasks were swept aside quite literally. The Giant wacked the bucket out of his hands and before Ivar knew what happened his dim world enlarged. Dragged through the sidegate, up a few stone steps, kicked through a narrow hall and eventually shoved into a chamber; the castle’s kitchen. 

  
The place was a beehive, maids and servants squirmed around like rats, all dead-set upon fulfilling their duty and tasks. Grease splattered pots and pans were taken and set onto stained counters. Utensils and dried herbs hung where stored on hooks hung upon the walls, rows of matching cups lined perfectly on wooden shelves. Unrinsed dishes stocked up in the corner where mice were having a field day. 

  
An ancient kettle boiled above a bright fire, filling the room with the mouth-watering smell of pottage stew. 

  
The Giant smacked Ivar across the face to get his attention. The brute pointed at an imposing bag stocked with potatoes and then got down to his knees in order to chain Ivar to the wall.    
For a few minutes Ivar was left unattended and he used the little time to take in his new wearabouts. 

  
Two maidens ruled the kitchens. Later Ivar would name them Big Cunt and Little Cut, because both women had their meanstreaks. Although Big Cunt was the tallest of the two it was Little Cunt who was the dominator, as there could not be two captains on a ship. 

  
Big Cunt was Ivar’s age, a few years older perhaps and a burden for the eye. Her thin petulant face was forced into an ever going frown which matched well with her whiny voice.

  
Little Cunt ruled her kitchen with a scepter. Every mistake made by servants would be punished with a harsh whack of her wooden walking stick. Let her bony arthritis hands not fool you, for her old age she could hit like a grown man. And with every excuse her face would crumble up like an over stored apple, bitter and sour. 

For now both women weren't paying much attention to Ivar, there was enough chaos in the beehive and apparently a lot at stake. 

  
Through the mass of people Piglet suddenly stepped in view and took place next to him, giving him a sympathetic smile before giving him an even greater gift. 

  
A knife, the foolish girl handed him a knife. It was snapped at the tip, but the rest was sharp.  _ Deadly _ . After receiving the weapon Ivar turned into stone, for he could not believe his eyes and Piglet’s stupidity. The girl hummed and started peeling potatoes, oblivious to the natural born killer next to her. Ivar’s eyes focussed on her throat, watching how the young woman’s heartbeat jittered right underneath the skin of her neck. 

If he was to plunge the knife in Piglet’s throat she’d bleed out within a couple heartbeats. It would make him feel good, there was no denying of that. Since Ivar could not please a woman, he’d fixated his pleasure onto something else; bloodlust. 

  
Drawing someone’s blood; his pain escaped through theirs. Seeped from their wounds, his rage fled within their hollow screams. In their agony, he’d find his salvation, meeting their pain, it temporarily freed him from the bounds of his useless body. 

  
Ivar studied Piglet with a predator’s unwavering attention while he held the knife clutched in his fist. It took Piglet four potatoes to notice Ivar’s cold dead-pan stare and she yelped softly. 

  
“Ivar?!” She resolutely dropped all her work and clasped her hand over his; bloody and sticky.   
For a moment Ivar neither believed his eyes nor mind. Had he wounded someone?

  
It took him a moment longer to connect the dots, that yes, he’d wounded someone and that someone was himself. As he’d clutched the knife the sharp edge imbedded his palm.

  
The possible murder weapon fell down on the floor as a hish escaped Ivar’s mouth and stared at his hand. The crimson fluid ran down his wrist, while a small pool was caught in the centre of his hand. 

  
“Ivar dumb-dumb,” Piglet sighed shaking her head and dragging his hand slightly to get a closer look. 

As his breath caught in his throat Ivar allowed her to fix his mistake; she pressed a clean rag in his palm and squeezed his hands shut with her own. Although her skin color was contrasting, her hands matched his roughness. Like his, her skin told her story of hard labour and hardships, yet the way she held him was soft and reassuring. 

  
As if touched by fire Ivar drew his hand loose; the last thing he wanted was being perceived as weak. And a small cut was no reason to weep or allow consolation. 

  
Piglet’s eyes flickered with amusement: “dumd-dumb,” she mumbled and whipped her bloody hands clean on the hem of her underskirt. The congealed red-blown substance had become caught in the webbing of her fingers. She wore his blood as she continued to pick up her work and started humming; unbothered and unfazed. 

  
Ivar wondered if her blood was red too, or would it be darker, thicker? He decided that today wasn’t the day he’d find out and as the pain in his palm lessened, he picked up the knife and started peeling potatoes. 

.-.-.

For the next couple of days Ivar’s quality of life changed for the good. Although an undetectable sense of tension lingered in the castle, Ivar considered the overall silent stress as something positive. He no longer had time to tent for the pigs, because his new tasks were time consuming. He and Piglet were to attend in the kitchen for various odd-jobs spat by Little Cunt. 

Although Ivar still had no knowledge of Dietsc, Piglet was keen on keeping him up to date. She enjoyed the change of work too and although both were still outcast and shunned by the rest of the maids, they treasured every moment. 

  
The time in between courses, the most.

  
Because in that fraction, the kitchen would be deserted; which meant easy access to proper food.

The first time such a moment erupted Piglet had bolted through the kitchen to scavenger a decent meal for two. Ivar was still chained up from the moment entering the kitchen until leaving and he’d been over the moon to sink his teeth into a slice of roast beef. Piglet knew her ways, she’d never pick too much of anything, or misplace any of the cutlery. She was a proper thief. 

  
And a dirty avenger, but Ivar had to say he admired her relentlessness.

  
During one of the ‘in between moments’, Piglet notioned to Ivar to watch the door and skillfully reached for a jug from one of the higher shelves. Without a trace of shame she pulled her skirts up and sank through her knees; pissing into the makeshift chamberpot. 

  
She then emptied the content in the massive soup kettle and placed the jug back on its place, to then hurry back to her spot next to Ivar.

  
“You disgusting woman,” Ivar whispered in a mixture of disgust and admiration then scrunched up his nose and glared at her, “don’t tell me you ever pulled such a trick on me!” 

  
Although not all words were comprehensible for Piglet, his disgusted face revealed the essence. A grin spread over her face, wide and open, showing her perfect white teeth. Smug and satisfied she slumbered against the wall and watched how the maidens filled silver bowls with soup. 

“Sköl,” she whispered wickedly and made a humble bow with her head towards the second course meal being served. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: Ah, they held hands and Piglet might have/might haven’t pissed in Ivar’s food, now if that’s not companionship I don’t know what is! I really like Piglet, she’s definitely in my top 3 OC’s. Oh and Ivar is such an interesting character to write about, I really love that I’ve placed him in this terrible situation because it’s a total treat to write about.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ What do you guys think of ‘my Ivar’ as he’s being thrown into this position of a slave, is he still in character? _ __   
_   
_ __ Love to hear from ya’ll

_ Xoxoxox Nukyster  _


	16. Abomination of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because she was a nothing, they both were nothings. They were not allowed to have feelings, nor thoughts, nor emotions. Those were privileges for the rich, for the free. Not for property, not for things. 

**.-.-.**

Like a quiet lonesome observer, Ivar watched Piglet get throughout the days. She was troubled, on edge and obviously scared of something. But Ivar hadn’t been able to place his finger on the source of Piglet's great discomfort. It bothered him to be left in the dark while some unknown force was wearing his only companion down. In the course of a few days, her dark eyes turned vacant and lost their usual soft glimmer of optimism. Ever since their rough start, Piglet had always worn her burdens with a tilted up chin and shoulders back. She simply endured her poor course of life and was able to treasure all bright moments.

Ivar had envied her for that, but now that her overall brightness started to fade away, he missed the way she’d smile vividly at the scrawny lamb who succeeded to skittle after her throughout the courtyard. All of her happiness diluted along with her spirit. 

  
The distance between them grew and it got on Ivar's nerves because he had no say in it, she simply seemed to hide and slowly fade away. She had grown a habit of nail biting, which showed mostly during their usual game-time in between dusk and darkness. She was  _ there  _ but at the same time not; fighting inner battles and fears all on her own.

  
As for today, she’d been slumped against the wall, cracking eggs and mixing them with herbs, onions and spices without uttering a word. His few attempts to start a conversation had been fruitless, so he gave up and let her do her job as he did his. The rest of the day passed dreadfully slow and the evening promised another boring pass of time. 

  
“Wahid, arbe, sitta?” Ivar questioned a few times but received no response from around the corner. So he swiped a few handfuls of hay together, turned on his side in an attempt to sleep.

  
Ivar woke up abruptly and he didn’t know why. His eyes flashed open and his limbs flexed in shock. With his senses still dull from sleep, he tried to categorize the danger lurking in the dancing shadows of the semi-dark shed. A candle was lit, the animals sounded nervous, indicating that the danger was close. The stench of cold-sweat and fear hung in the air. And there was something else,  _ someone else _ .

  
Ivar’s breath caught in his throat and his heart started pounding when he heard Piglet’s muffled cries and a raw voice breaking. 

  
Adrenaline poured itself into his veins and in a state of utter alertness, Ivar dragged himself to the wooden wall that separated him from the assault. Through the cracks, a scene played out:    
Piglet struggled against her attacker, shooting her right leg out. But her movements were far too slow and instead helped the attacker rather than hinder. Her legs were kicked apart and hands moved from her waist to her arms, trapping them above her head. Roughly, Piglet was shoved down.

  
Ivar’s eyes were glued on jewel encrusted ringed fingers. They crept their way to Piglets bosom, squeezing roughly. In an instant, Piglet grew still and her dark eyes widened as far as they could. 

  
Ivar could not tell how much time passed between Piglet’s eyes changing from shock, to disgust, to utter revulsion. During that moment, Ivar found himself frozen solid. Unable to move, to shout or even breath. As he watched his only companion being wronged in such an inhumane way, he realised the true extent of his powerlessness. 

The assault abruptly stopped and Piglet’s attacker jerked away from her, his croaky voice shouting in disgust. Piglet received a fist in her face, which was so low down and dirty, due to her arms being pinned above her head, she had no way of blocking it. 

  
Her attacker let go of her completely and quickly stood back on his two feet. Ivar managed to break his spell and crawled towards the end of his box in order to catch a glimpse of the coward. 

  
Before the bastard had the chance to flee, their eyes locked and enlarged; one in surprise, the other in a complete and utter state of loathing. 

  
In front of Ivar stood a young man. Although his overall appearance screamed wealth and fortune, his physical features were meager and plain. The only notable feature was the man’s harelip; the small cleft did not allow him to close his mouth properly. 

  
Ivar’s physical appearance made his opponent’s mouth drop entirely and a gleam of sweat ran down from under the man’s brown fringe. Their eyes never blinked nor looked away, it was a contest of some sorts and Ivar was dead-set on winning. 

  
Inwardly, he roared when the bastard drew his gaze down and scoffed, trying to save his dignity by ridiculing Ivar. 

  
Ivar glared at him and now that he was the victor, he looked the bastard over from head to toe and eventually stopped at the young man’s crotch, which was noticeably piss stained. 

  
‘She pissed on him,’ Ivar realised as gratification morphed his lips into a sly grin. 

  
When the young man noticed Ivar’s focus, he drew out a handkerchief and frantically rubbed the stains, an ineffective venture. 

  
“Oh, did that little savage make a fool out of you,” Ivar sneered and tksed, motioning him to come closer and cross Piglet’s makeshift line, “why don’t you prove yourself to be a man and fight one.” 

  
Ivar crawled up as close as his shackles allowed him and pushed himself up on his knuckles.

  
“Congratulations, you will be my main target, once I’ve murdered the Giant.” 

  
Ivar surprised himself by the way he was able to keep all his anger and loathing inside his chest and transpire it into his gaze. He must be wearing a hellish mask, because even though the young man did not understand his word, he gulped thickly and took a few steps back, which meant increasing his distance from Piglet. 

  
“Good, keep walking you pathetic human being,” Ivar whispered as his eyes fixated on the young man’s back. 

  
The royal bastard left their shed and locked their door. Which meant he had keys and was able to come in and out whenever he pleased. 

The reason for Piglet's dread left the pair of them in a suffocating silence. Ivar quietly retreated to the wooden wall that separated them. Cautiously, he glanced through the cracks and noticed how Piglet had drawn her knees up to her chest and hid her face in between them. 

  
Ivar swallowed dryly and rubbed the back of his head, at a loss for words, he tried to summon up anything that would make Piglet’s current situation more endurable. After a few attempts to open his mouth and speak up, he realised there wasn’t enough comfort in the world to ease Piglet’s pain. It left a bitter taste inside his mouth and it struck him what Piglet’s reasons were for keeping up her poor personal hygiene. She clung to that wall of stench and filth in order to keep everyone at a safe distance. 

  
It was her weeping that made him feel guilty on behalf of all men. Her sounds were heart wrenching and raw. As her tears came in waves, moments of sobbing broken apart by short pauses to recover her breath, before spiraling back into that dreadful sound of losing hope. 

It was enough to make Ivar drop his head and press his palms against his ears. He didn’t want to be present during her breakdown, but he had no choice in the matter. Just like Piglet had no choice but to pick herself up in the morning, get back to work and if needed, turn the other cheek. 

  
Because she was a nothing, they both were nothings. They were not allowed to have feelings, nor thoughts, nor emotions. Those were privileges for the rich, for the free. Not for property, not for  _ things _ . 

  
It took until early morning for Piglet’s sobs to evolve into chants for her God. Ivar hadn’t been able to move or sleep. His thoughts had been too occupied while he’d tried to drown out all of Piglet’s sounds. He too had prayed to his Gods, to give him a proper chance to slaughter the young man that harmed Piglet. That was all he needed, one moment in the shadows; to kill that bastard without getting caught. Because that would earn him a punishment worse than death; crucifixion, burned alive. Or being hoisted on the wheel, until the Giant broke every bone in his body. Oh yes, those Christians cursed the heathens for being soulless, but when it came to torture they were rather creative themselves. 

In all honesty, Ivar could live with that thought; of being tortured to death, as long as it was an eye for an eye. Avenging Piglet by destroying a Christian would earn him a place at the table in Valhalla. 

But it seemed wrong for Piglet to suffer the same punishment. Whether he liked it or not, their fates had intertwined from the moment he woke up in the shed. And that must mean something.   
Ivar could only hope that all of their suffering was for a greater good, a better purpose than to be exploited by the Christians. And so he prayed to Odin, the All-Father for strength and willpower, to endure just a little bit longer until the perfect opportunity would reveal itself. So he’d be able to burn this entire place down, with every last master burning within it.    
  


.-.-.

The next morning, Piglet wasn’t able to meet his eyes. Although she had nothing to be ashamed of, she did her absolute best to avoid him. Without a word, she fled the shed with the cattle and didn’t meet with Ivar until late in the afternoon, where both were forced to work in the kitchen. 

  
Ivar remained silent too, observing how Piglet just sat next to him. Her features dominated by a profound form of sadness, fatigue engraved in her worn down face. Her hands trembled but managed to work their way through countless potatoes and onions. 

  
Once back at the shed, she brought him fresh water and a dish that involved actual meat. But Ivar didn’t manage to get a bite down his throat and placed the bowl away, heading towards his trough in order to freshen up. 

  
Ivar was scrubbing the filth from his upper legs and lower waist when something cluttered onto the floor. Craning his neck over his shoulder, he was just in time to notice how Piglet’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and her body collapsed onto the floor, next to the full bowl she’d dropped. 

  
Her limbs started to spasm and soon her entire body was convulsing. Her hands twitched over the makeshift line and Ivar sprung into action.

  
He drew her into his box and vividly remembered how the Giant smacked her until she came back to her senses. But it seemed cruel to hit an unconscious woman, especially one that still wore the bruise of a golden ring on her cheek from the previous night. Instead of beating the seizure out of her, Ivar frantically shook her shoulders and tried to keep her arms and legs from hitting the wooden panels. 

  
Slowly, the whites of her eyes shifted back and she blinked a few times. With a vacant stare, she tried to catch up with her whereabouts; down onto the floor, on the other side of the line, with Ivar naked, towering over her. 

  
Betrayal manifested after the third blink and with feeble fists, she hit his bare chest. Ivar wasn’t aware of her presumptions until she started crying again and snapped her teeth at him. 

  
“No, Piglet I’m  _ not _ -” but before he could finish his sentence, she managed to sink her teeth into his lower arm and bit through. 

  
Ivar skillfully smothered the reflex to slap her, yet grabbed her neck in an attempt to stop her from biting him. But Piglet was now a dog with a bone, quite literally and would not stop her teeth from sinking deeper into Ivar’s skin, to the point of drawing blood. 

  
“Piglet stop!” Ivar growled at her as the stinging sensation turned to a burning row of shards penetrating his flesh. 

  
“Maksura,” he shouted in defeat, allowing his most embarrassing default to be on display. He’d heard her use that word before, she’d been speaking about his broken legs. 

  
“ _ Maksura _ , damn it Piglet, my prick doesn’t work, stop biting me!” he confessed pointing at his worthless member.

  
His words had some effect on Piglet, at least enough to make her stop biting a chunk out of his arm. Her jaw relaxed, Ivar let go of her neck and she quickly shuffled backwards until she sat on the safe side of the line.

  
“Maksura?” She questioned breathless, gesturing to Ivar’s crotch. 

  
A part of him shattered and laid in a thousand tiny pieces in the middle of the hay covered floor when he nodded. 

  
“Yes, maksura, I’m broken,” Ivar whispered with a faint voice and fought the warmth that spread to his cheeks, “I can’t hurt you, not like  _ that _ .” A sweltering heat wave bloomed and burned his face brightly red. He drew his gaze down and squeezed his eyes shut, for he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his sniveling in. 

  
He overheard her scatter back on her feet and retreat to her box. His eyes were stinging and there was a lump in his throat the size of a fortress, one he could not swallow away. 

  
Dejection met him like an old friend; remembering all the other shared events that stayed with him as he rapidly put his clothes back on. 

  
Completely empty, Ivar retreated to the farthest side of his box, away from Piglet, for she now knew his most painful secret. That he could not get it up, that he was incapable of fucking a woman. 

  
Solemnly, he licked the blood from his wrist and counted sixteen perfect teeth marks. She got him good, had been able to get underneath his skin in a variety of ways. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: This too was a very important chapter, one that revealed secrets and fears. The title speaks for itself and goes two ways; one for the young man who wronged Piglet. And two, for Ivar who perceives himself as un-human due to his inabilities. I hope I was able to write this chapter well enough, I wanted to be ‘blunt’ and ‘in your face’ of how the lives of slaves are. No sugarcoating, no soft edges, this is what men can do to others, simply because they do see them as human beings.  _

_ I also think this chapter changes the dynamic between Piglet and Ivar, because she now knows he isn’t able to hurt her like that, which makes him different to other men.  _

_ This chapter means a lot to me, if you can please let me know what you think. _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	17. Under the skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ludolf de Haar,” Piglet whispered closely to his ear and dug her nails into Ivar’s wrist with the strength of a wild cat. Her act was not provoked due to Ivar, no it was an extension of the fear she held for that particular young man. 
> 
> “Bad man,” she pointed to the young couple, “bad man…” 

.-.-.

Communication was out of the question. Overnight, Ivar’s embarrassment had grown to the size of a boulder and that huge rock of sweltering shame rested upon his chest, making it rather difficult to breathe. 

  
Ivar was glad he’d been dragged back into the mud of the pigsty, as he could not bear to be around Piglet. With both their secrets stripped bare, neither were able to look the other straight in the eyes. 

  
Amongst the pigs, Ivar tried to recollect his damaged ego but managed it poorly. A form of hopelessness took hold of his shoulders and hindered him from keeping his chin up. 

  
The mundane labour and damp wind kept Ivar’s thoughts from spiraling down, the Dietsch autumn was merciless; losing her beauty and warmth faster every day. It would not take long for frost to claim the soil and turn the entire pigsty into a shallow lake of muddy ice. 

  
Ivar wondered how he was going to survive, once winter announced itself with snow and freezing temperatures. His clothes were no match for the upcoming cold and the way he scraped through his makeshift knee pads, during his day to day odd jobs, made him dejected. Because how on earth was he going to move through thick layers of snow? He’d freeze to death, with his poor rags for clothing, soaking with icy water. 

  
Piglet quite literally shoved him out of his thoughts. The young woman dashed over the wooden fence of the pigsty and crawled her way towards the pigs enjoying their breakfast. She managed to squeeze her body alongside the fat bellies and disappeared from view. 

  
Almost simultaneous to Piglet’s free dive between the grunting animals, a carriage arrived. The tough Lancewood shafts were carved; decorating the sides with elegant flowers and biblical images. The transport device was the size of a decent house and had windows made of actual glass. 

  
The imposing carriage stopped near the well, it’s driver scratched the back of his head and looked around a little lost and anxious. 

  
“ _ Ivar _ ,” Piglet hissed and threw a clump of mud in his direction splattering one side of his face. Before he could yell at her, she indicated very firmly to get his head down and mouth shut. 

  
Curious, Ivar did what was told but instead of hiding, he crawled through the pigsty and peeked through the missing border of the fence. 

  
By then, the driver had managed to spot one of the linen maids, the girl made a small bow and started pointing with her hand, giving him the proper directions to the main entrance. 

  
Intrigued by the whole incident, Ivar sat up and traced the glass windows. What type of master would be sitting on the other side? By the imposing impression of the carriage, it was not a commoner. Would it be an Earl? A famous healer? A king? 

  
“ _ Hamar _ !” Piglet sank her nails into his shoulders and dragged him down. Ivar let out a harsh breath of frustration and gave her a hard shove back.

  
“Just because I’m no longer planning on murdering you, doesn’t mean you can treat me like a scurvy dog,” he growled and plucked on the collar of his shirt to fix it before craning his head back towards the carriage. 

  
A young fair maiden had stepped down the iron footplate of the carriage and seemed just as lost and puzzled as her driver. She was nervous too, although she managed to keep a blank expression, her fiddling hands gave it away. Her fingers played with the embroidered laces of her long, fur coated cloak. 

  
Oh, she came from wealth, with her pale cheeks that have hardly been kissed by the sun. 

  
Her fingers found a new distraction, they played with a loose lock or her long blonde braided hair as soon as master and mistress de Haar approached her carriage. 

  
To Ivar’s surprise and annoyance, Piglet’s tormentor tottered behind them, sour-faced and in a black mood. 

  
Between the four aristocrats, came a stiff introduction in which the fair maiden gave a brief bow towards the master and the mistress. Piglet’s tormentor managed to lisp a few words and hastily placed a clumsy kiss on the back of her hand. 

  
As the four of them strode back to the wealthy part of the castle, the young man gave his arm for the fair maiden to take and Ivar realised the purpose of her arrival; an arranged marriage. 

  
“Ludolf de Haar,” Piglet whispered closely to his ear and dug her nails into Ivar’s wrist with the strength of a wild cat. Her act was not provoked due to Ivar, no it was an extension of the fear she held for that particular young man. 

  
“Bad man,” she pointed to the young couple, “bad man…” 

.-.-.

From his warm lungs, came white puffs of clouds with every breath he exhaled. Ivar tried to brace himself for the night as the cold started to set into his muscles and bones. He’d managed to hide most of his body underneath a thick layer of hay, but without a proper bed, the cold crept up on him from the flooring. Knowing that in the morning, his legs would cause him agony, made it hard to fall asleep. 

  
And with the dreadful event of last night still fresh in his memory, sleep seemed completely out of the question.

  
Although he created the illusion of being fast asleep, his whole body was on edge and his ears wide open. If that croaked-lipped bastard decided to come back, he wanted to be wide awake.    
His companion must feel the same, usually she was the first one to drift asleep, indicated by her calm deep breaths and occasional snoring. 

  
Ivar overheard her tossing and turning, all while her breath remained shallow and fast. Both were destined for a long sleepless night while being plagued by the penetrating cold. 

  
Approaching footsteps made both their breaths catch in their throats. Ivar’s eyes narrowed and for a moment, he closed them completely. The footsteps had the wet sound of someone walking in mud, someone who hadn’t learned to walk quietly and instead, relied on verges to muffle their steps. Each footfall was chaotically spaced from the last, no rhythm at all. They lacked confidence and cunningness. 

  
The footsteps most definitely belonged to Ludolf de Haar.

  
Piglet was aware of this too and before the keys could click inside the lock and open the door, she flung herself over the fence that separated their boxes and sought shelter alongside Ivar. 

  
It felt strange, for her to be so close in the twilight. Never before had she willingly crossed her makeshift line, but with such a predator on the verge of walking in, all rules were fairly broken.    
Ivar hastily crafted a plan. Without a word, he tucked Piglet’s body underneath the hay and crawled close to the trough.

  
The second Ludolf set a foot in their doorway, Ivar shoved his middle and index finger in the back of his throat and started hurling. Tears burned his eyes as partially digested chicken spewed out of him. His unwilling stomach contracted as he forced its entire content up and out.    
His fingers crawled around the edge of the trough and turned his knuckles white. Lurching forwards once more, Ivar choked and coughed. The pungent stench invaded his nostrils as he heaved until there was nothing left. 

  
He knew he was a mess, a dirty, sweaty, smelling, disgusting mess. He’d learned from the best.    
When he flung his head up, his heart leapt as he watched Ludolf’s lop-sided lip curl up from repulsion. 

  
Continuing to his act, Ivar clumsily crashed onto his stomach and in the process knocked over the trough. 

  
The youngest descendant of de Haar did not know how fast he could flee from the shed, as splatters of vomit rained down onto his leather boots. 

  
Although his entire stomach was empty, Ivar felt content and victorious. He’d conquered the enemy without lifting a finger and saved Piglet’s virtue, at least for another night. 

  
Indecisive, he turned back to the quivering pile of hay. Piglet had morphed back into a sniveling mess and that form of a woman was foreign and appalling to Ivar. He much rather fight the Giant with both his hands tied to his back then to retreat to the end of his box. 

  
But he was cold and damn exhausted from being in a continuous state of alertness. So even though Piglet’s soft weeping was off putting, he crawled back, stole half of her hay and lay down beside her. 

  
“Shut up Piglet,” he growled at her, shifting on his side with his back towards her. Although the warmth of her body was rather welcoming, he did not want to give her the impression he was growing soft on her. Ivar could cope with blood, pain and violence, but any form of gratefulness coming from a woman, chilled him to the bones. Such gratitude might give her the impression she mattered something to him, which evidently would give her power over him. And he did not want to be used simply for being a longing weakling, because he did not crave her approval nor care. 

  
Ivar certainly did not want to feel loved. 

  
“Shukraan,” she thanked him soft and humble and draped her arm over him, pulling herself tightly to his back. Ivar’s body stiffened by her uncharacteristic forwardness and bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood. Her upper body fitted perfectly against his and he could feel her heartbeat jitter rapidly. For a moment, he wondered which one of their hearts galloped faster.

  
Ivar inhaled a deep breath and blew out slowly: “shut up piglet,” but his words lacked its intended venom. 

  
She reeked, she had absolutely no respect for him and Ivar tried to think of many other reasons why he should not find so much relief in her embrace. But the truth was, her warmth and closeness gave him more comfort than any blanket or fur coat ever could.

  
And so he clenched his jaw over and over, sucked on the inside of his bloody cheek and remained stiff-backed and wide awake, because he could not swallow the fact that a reeking savage managed to continue getting underneath his skin. 

  
  


.-.-.

_ A/N: ok I know this was a ‘preventing a rape’ chapter, but I think those two together are cute af. As I mentioned before, I really like to torture Ivar and I think Piglet’s embrace comes pretty close to the many times the Giant beat the shit out of him. He simply cannot deal with kindness.  _ _   
_ _   
_

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _

  
  



	18. Silent Rebellion, Loud Acts of Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He simply was the lesser of two evils; one that might kill her but in this world, there were worse things than death.

.-.-.

When Ivar woke up, he stared straight into two horizontal pupils. He flinched in reflex, his hand automatically reaching out for his axe. Instead of the murder weapon, his fingers brushed over a warm hand, which made him flinch even more, pause and then frantically rub his eyes. 

  
The early morning nemesis turned out to be Piglet’s favorite lamb who was now chewing on Ivar’s makeshift blanket of hay, a few inches away from his face. The small animal stared at him dully and bleated loudly before tottering off. 

  
Ivar stared at the wobbly little legs with envy before untangling himself from Piglet’s limbs. During the night, she’d inched closer and closer, wrapping her arms around his waist and hooked her legs around his. Ivar hadn’t been sure if she’d strategically curled up against him like a snake, or if she was actually asleep. He also wondered if she knew he pretended to be asleep, he hoped she didn’t, it would be easier to brush off their sudden closeness and label it as surviver’s instinct; body heat.

  
He knew one damn thing for sure; if he hadn’t confessed his impotence, she would have never dared to cross that makeshift line of hers. He simply was the lesser of two evils; one that  _ might _ kill her but in this world, there were worse things than death. 

  
Ivar watched her, Piglet. The Wildling. She truly was a mystery to him. Wrapped up in tattered rags from head to toe, hiding her true forms and curves. He wondered if her physique matched the women of Kattegat as he wondered how many winters she’d seen. He knew one thing very well; her shape already had the beginnings of womanhood, her small peaked breast had pressed firmly against his back for at least half of the night. 

  
Ivar tilted his head, his mouth slightly ajar as he continued to observe Piglet’s body; he still wondered if she was fully human or a descendant of a Huldra. 

  
Curious, Ivar crawled alongside her and stared at her back. What if she’d had a tail and a bark covered back? What if she truly was a forest creature, enslaved by humans? So out of place in a world she did not belong in. 

  
Then he knew her pain.    
  
From an early age, his brother Sigurd-Snake-in-the-Eye had teased him with the possibility of Ivar being a  _ bortbything _ , a changeling. Swapped right after birth with a human child and burdening their family. There was an old folktale of a human mother being advised to brutalize the changeling, so that the forest creatures would return her true son. But the mother refused, unable to mistreat an innocent child, despite knowing its nature. When her husband demanded she abandon the changeling, she refused and her husband left her. 

  
_ Them _ . Their father left  _ all of them _ . 

During any brotherly fight or disagreement, Sigurd never left out a chance to remind Ivar of the tale. And in every tale there is a grain of truth. 

  
Heart wrenched, Ivar thought back to all the times he’d wondered through the woods, searching for a hint of his real family. And if he found them, he would eagerly trade places with the true son of Ragnar Lothbrok, because as a fraud, he certainly did not deserve to be placed on such a pedestal. 

Keys were rammed into the lock and Piglet’s dark eyes flashed wide open. Without a second to waste, she jumped up and leaped over the wooden border back to her side of the shed. 

  
It was the Giant and instead of eagerly cracking his knuckle to beat some sense into his slave, his hands were jammed together against his chest. Pious as a true devotee, the Giant came to collect the lost sheep, to guide them back towards the house of his God. 

  
Ivar growled and rolled his eyes as his chains were unshackled; it must be Sunday. 

.-.-.

“Hail All-Father, wise warrior, one-eyed wanderer, come sit at my fire. Tell me your wisdom stories, the scenes your missing eyes sees. You who chooses the slain, look on my deed and when my time comes, to run the sky with you. Let me end be worthy of song. In the meantime, let me feel excitement and poetry and fury and joy. Let me understand sacrifice. Think long, remember well and journey far. Odin, witness this.”

  
“ _ Amen, _ ” echoed simultaneously through the chapel and Ivar re-opened his eyes. 

  
“Allahu Akbar,” Piglet whispered so softly only her direct heathen neighbour could overhear her. Their eyes locked, both gleaming with satisfaction as they’d carried out their secret pact. 

  
To riot against the God of the Christians, in their most sacred place of all by praying to their own Gods. 

  
Their rebellion earned them better food, as the Giant mistook their devotion and clasped hands as a first step on the path of righteousness. 

  
Instead of working their heads off, Ivar and Piglet were allowed to share lunch with the other commoners in the castle’s kitchen. This of course did not mean the pair would automatically be accepted by the other servants and slaves. The linen maidens still stared at Piglet as if she were bird shit on their Sunday dresses and Little Cunt would wack her stick repeatedly against Ivar’s shin bone if his legs appeared out from underneath the table. As a cripple, he was not allowed to sit at a decent height and in all honesty, he was fine with sitting on the floor. As revenge, he made a sport out of tying laces together, always fast enough to flee the crime scene before getting caught. Besides, when he was sitting below, Piglet was able to sneak all leftover to his side. He hid the food inside the pocket of his tunic, which Piglet had sewed in. She was a proper thief and he made a fine smuggler; this way, both could grow back some fat before winter fell. 

  
Little Cunt and Big Cunt managed an entire feast inside the kitchen during this particular Sunday. Ivar guessed it had something to do with the arranged marriage; showing off their wealth to the female newcomer. 

  
Ivar silently hoped both would break their necks and bust their knees as the two spiteful women carried trays of food to their rulers. 

  
Right before supper, the Giant managed to ruin the atmosphere with his mere presence. His hostile air and booming voice made most of the women flinch and sit up straight; everyone beside Little Cunt of course, due to her crooked back. All elated feelings simply vanished into thin air. It only fueled the Giant’s ego; the man fed off fear of the lesser. 

  
The Giant noticed how his favorite target was banished to the floor and lacked a proper plate and cutlery. For that, Little Cunt was scolded, which surprised Ivar. 

  
An odd little tinge nudged the inside of his stomach as the Giant grabbed him by the shoulders and allowed him to sit at the long table, with the others. 

  
Piglet did not trust the Giant’s uncharacteristic favour and nudged Ivar against the shin bone underneath the table. She stared intensely towards her plate and nudged him again, indicating he needed to follow her example. 

  
The Giant was pleased with the suffocating silence and sat down directly next to Ivar, shoving Little Cunt’s plate and cutlery across and placed it all in front of Ivar. 

  
There was something very wrong with the gesture, but all Ivar could focus on was the knife which lay inches away from his balled hand. 

  
Around him, all the table mates clasped their hands together and the Giant started to speak:    
“Rex tremedae majestic, qui salvandos salvas gratis. Salve me, Fons Pietatis, Salve me, Fond Pietatis.” 

  
All repeated his words, all but Ivar who’s eyes still lingered at the knife. It was blunt and wouldn’t be able to carve into bone. But it would be enough to make a cross from eye to eye and shove it deep down into the gaping hole of a mouth. 

  
Ivar’s silence did not go by unnoticed, the grey dead eyes of the Giant burned with outrage and he slammed his fists onto the wood on the table with so much force all plates rattled.    
The silence was deafening and sparked Ivar's stubbornness and will to provoke the enemy. 

Instead of whimpering in fear, he slowly tilted his chin up while pursing his lips firmly shut. The Giant could dance on his corpse and rip out his tongue, he was not going to repeat that phrase. 

Piglet met his gaze with wide eyes, her glance was a mixture of horror and utter frustration. The nails of her right hand were digging into the left wrist and although she didn’t dare to speak, she tried to will him into giving in. 

  
The Giant repeated the phrase again, his voice guttural and blazing with held back fury. When Ivar still refused to utter a word, the Giant became unhinged. Before Ivar could brace himself, his face was smashed into the wood of the table. With his nose inches away from his plate, he stared up as the Giant tried to crush his skull. 

“Rex tremedae majestic, qui salvandos salvas gratis. Salve me, Fons Pietatis, Salve me, Fond Pietatis.” The brute spat in his face as he increased the pressure on Ivar’s scalp. 

  
Piglet had always been right about one thing; Ivar was thick headed and even though his heart was throbbing in his ears and dark spots started to blur his vision, he kept his damn mouth shut. 

  
When the Giant noticed how fruitless his action was, he kicked his own chair back and took hold of Ivar’s left hand, while keeping firm pressure on his victim’s head. 

“Rex tremedae majestic, qui salvandos salvas gratis-” he repeated again, while straightening Ivar’s arm above his back, “-Salve me, Fons Pietatis, Salve me, Fond Pietatis.”

  
Slowly but steadily, he started to turn Ivar’s arm. Unwillingly, the muscles of his left arm were stretched further and further up onto a point Ivar could no longer keep his sound in. His previous inability to speak vanished and he cried out like a wild animal. And although those sounds were music to the Giant’s ears, they weren't the words he wished to hear. Agonizingly slow, Ivar’s arm was stretched to their absolute limit. Cringing from pain, Ivar tried to free his head, while howling like a mad dog. The twisting became unbearable and he swore he felt something tear inside his bicep. His eyes shot open, yet all he could see was red. Red and the knife that still lay inches away from his free hand. 

  
From behind Ivar, a baleful cackle broke free from behind rotting teeth but Ivar barely heard it over the sound of his loud and galloping heartbeat. Hate burned in his heart so deeply that it was ingrained into the tissue and all he wanted to see before he died, was that knife sticking out of the Giant’s throat. 

  
“NO!” As an arrow shot from a bow, Piglet launched herself over the table and swiped the knife away from Ivar’s trembling hand. Along with the murder weapon, she managed to send his plate, fork and spoon to the floor as well. 

  
The silence that fell foretold a future of punishment, on both sides.

  
“Ivar,  _ speak _ !” Piglet hissed through her teeth as she mentally prepared for a beating she honestly did not deserve. 

  
Ivar’s stubbornness yielded to his shame, knowing Piglet risked her own skin. 

  
“Rex tremedae majestic, qui salvandos salvas gratis. Salve me, Fons Pietatis, Salve me, Fond Pietatis.” He spoke, the foreign words came out of his throat completely empty of meaning, yet it eased the death grip on his skull and his right hand was released, falling back against his body. 

  
The Giant kicked his chair right from under him, Ivar fell backwards but was quickly hoisted onto his knees. His hands were shoved together and his head tilted down. For a moment, he was confused until he received a fist near his kidney, as the Giant spoke the first two words: “Rex tremedae…” 

  
Gasping for air, Ivar repeated the phrase while physically steading himself for the next blow. The Giant circled around him like a wolf and hammered his fist down onto Ivar the moment his victim failed to sit up in a straight pose. 

  
Countless of times, Ivar spoke the words of the fake God until they seemed to be engraved on his lips. He could feel his face swell up due to the punches, but the pain made him dazed, as if he’d grown insensitive to the Giant’s fists. It must be due to the numbness inside of his head, all the while, he repeated the words that meant nothing to him. 

  
Eventually, his obedience was enough and the Giant simply shoved him aside and then sat back upon his so-called throne to sit with his lessers. Piglet’s plate and cutlery flew across the kitchen and the poor young woman was sent to fetch them while the entire table was ordered to spit at her. 

  
“Thick-head,” she silently snarled to Ivar as she picked up her fork and collected her strength before heading back to sit with the monster. Ivar did not respond, but he agreed with her, he was too stubborn for his own good, but he survived another day.   
  
His busted lip managed to form into a sly smile. Because in his abused right hand, he held the knife Piglet swept off the table. It was too blunt for bones, but it was sharp enough to tear through skin. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: Oh dang Ivar, you sly thing. I honestly intended to have him beat up again, but whoops now he got a knife.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ I’d like to address a few other things. The Changeling and the small folktale I added are based on a real folktale about trolls. I’ve been happy to finally add this small ficlet because I feel that this is exactly how Ivar feels, misplaced in his own family. And again, the burden of being the possible reason for their father disappearing. I think that Ragnar was a wonderful ruler but a dead-beat father, but a child always labels himself as the wrongdoer.  _ _  
  
_

_ The phrase ‘Rex tremedae majestic, qui salvandos salvas gratis. Salve me, Fons Pietatis, Salve me, Fond Pietatis’ comes from the song ‘city of the dead’ from Eurielle. It means ‘King of tremendous majesty, who freely saves, save me, fount of mercy, save me, fount of mercy.’ Which I thought was suiting and ironic because the ‘bring of the words’ is everything but merciful… _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Oh and I loved writing the start of this chapter, even though Ivar knows how to nicely wrap it all with the whole ‘Huldra thing’ he was most definitely checking Piglet out.  _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Well, that's all folks, see you next at a new adventure of Ivar’s sorry life:) _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster _

  
  



	19. Three question game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piglet didn’t say a word, instead she gave him the stink eye and sagged next to him against the wall. Carrying on with the work, she managed to bless him with one facial expression for the rest of the day: one of unreserved contempt, disapproval, distrust and loathing. And the expression was just the start, soon came the grunts and sighs.

**.-.-.**

Ivar had torn a muscle between his bicep and shoulder that made him a lot less mobile. He’d managed to limp on one arm towards the kitchen’s wall and slouched down against it. Resting his swollen cheek against the cool stones, Ivar hid the knife away between the folds of the potato bags that were wrapped around his legs. 

  
Piglet forcefully placed a basket full of shell beans at his feet. Kneeling down, her instructions followed fast and angry. She broke the bean and sliced off each end of the pod, pulling the pod apart from the seam. 

“Aren’t we just two peas in a pod, huh Piglet?” Ivar joked and immediately scrunched up his face when his split lip opened further.

  
Piglet didn’t say a word, instead she gave him the stink eye and sagged next to him against the wall. Carrying on with the work, she managed to bless him with one facial expression for the rest of the day: one of unreserved contempt, disapproval, distrust and loathing. And the expression was just the start, soon came the grunts and sighs. 

  
But she never left his side, still cautiously scanning the room to spot any type of danger or a hint that Ludolf might come around the doorway. 

  
For someone who called him thick-headed, Piglet was pretty guilty of that trait herself. She refused to speak to him and moved a few feet when Ivar poked her between the ribs to probe a word out of her. 

  
“Pot, kettle, black, Piglet,” Ivar murmured underneath his breath while his stomach howled like a hungry wolf. He hadn’t had much to chew on. Asking for food was out of the question, he already knew the answer to that;  _ none _ , just two dark smoldering eyes judging his impulsive behavior. 

  
At twilight, Ivar waited anxiously for Piglet’s arrival. He’d been brought back to the shed by a serf and chained. Piglet had been sent by Big Cunt to fetch some dry firewood for the pot and Ivar hadn’t seen her since. 

  
Restlessly, his fingers ran along the sharp side of his new toy. The tool felt foreign in his hand, it had been so long since he’d held a weapon of any variety. Yet he didn’t doubt he was still physically able to slash the knife down and hack his way through the Giant’s rib cage. 

  
He did wonder about the mental aspect of the task. It had occurred to him that he’d stalled in his reaction at the diner table. And why? Why, in a blink of an eye, had he made that radical decision to extend this torturous life for another day? He could have killed the Giant, with enough eyes to witness that it had been him,  _ just him _ , who’d turned that rotting face into an entire carcass. 

  
He sighed, leaned back and rolled his eyes. His reason was the same reason why he’d been jittery and biting his nails; Piglet. 

  
It would be an act of weakness if he left her alone, to deal with Ludolf and his perverted tendencies. 

  
A load of bricks fell off his chest when Piglet tiptoed into the shed, carrying a tray of food. However, like the soup, her temper was still at its boiling point. 

  
“How do I know you didn’t piss in it?” Ivar spoke, trying to mask his relief at seeing her waltz in unharmed. 

  
Piglet raised her chin and gave him a stone-hard expression before sliding the tray over the makeshift line: “You don’t.” 

  
Well, she managed to ruin his good mood within seconds. He threw her a deadly glare and scanned over the other items to eat. Today's meal was made up of a possibly-pissed-in-soup, two slices of stale bread that was on the verge of growing mold and an egg. 

  
Ivar settled with the egg, ticked it against the tray and started peeling off the shell. When he wolfed it down, his stomach still growled and he debated if hay could be used for human consumption. 

  
“I did not piss in it,” Piglet confidently spoke in his language without a stutter.

  
Ivar eyed her skeptically for a long moment before deciding to believe her, in all honesty he was so hungry he’d eat it anyways. 

  
“I spat in it,” Piglet announced dryly as Ivar slurped from his soup. Piglet scrunched up her nose, made a disgusting sound in the back of her throat and spat up a gob of sputum on to the floor. 

  
At the sight of that, Ivar’s gag reflex immediately kicked in and he spat out a mouthful of soup. 

  
“I joke,” Piglet grinned while Ivar spat repeatedly on the floor. 

  
“Bitch,” Ivar growled sourly and stole the two slices of stale bread. 

  
“Numskull,” Piglet retorted and fled the scene for a moment. 

  
Ivar glared after her while tearing off tiny bits of bread with his front teeth, hoping that if he ate really slowly, he wouldn’t be so hungry. 

  
Piglet returned with a knitted blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The fabric was thin, torn and had hay intertwined in nearly every inch of it. Without warning or a word, she dropped down directly next to him and drank a little of his soup.

  
Piglet wiped her mouth and passed him the bowl, indicating it was safe to eat. Ivar gave her a half shrug, dunked the bread into the lukewarm soup and ate, brooding and cursing her under his breath like a full grown man-child. 

  
Piglet let him enjoy his moment of crankiness and used the time to rid her blanket from some of the hay. As they sat shoulder to shoulder, the blanket radiated her warmth and with a full belly, Ivar started to unwind for a bit and curiosity got the best of him again.

  
While lingering a sideway glance, Ivar realised he knew nothing of his faithful companion. She had no real name, no past, no roots that he knew of. And she’d been very keen to keep him in the dark, of pretty much everything. 

  
A plan formed inside his head when he stored the bowl away and asked her: “Wahid, arbe, sitta?”

  
Of course Piglet was eager to play her game, always happy to get her mind off of her daily struggles and she went to fetch the knucklebones. She returned and sat back in her previous spot, shoulder to shoulder by her shed-mate and threw the bones on the floor. 

  
“Wait,” Ivar spoke and held up his hands, “I’d like to add a new rule, to make the game a bit more exciting.” 

  
Piglet could not fully understand his words and gawked at him a little defensively but allowed him to continue.

  
“We play a round, the winner gets to ask the loser three questions, which the loser needs to answer truthfully.” Ivar said, pointing up three fingers, “oh c’mon Piglet don’t be so sour, wahid, arbe, sitta.” 

  
It was clear that Piglet did not like this new rule. But when Ivar crossed his hands and made it clear he wasn’t going to participate otherwise, she agreed half heartedly. 

  
To his discomfort, Ivar lost the first round of the knuckle game, for some reason he hadn’t calculated that his chances of asking the questions had been fifty-fifty. 

  
With glee and self indulgence, Piglet wiggled her toes and tilted her head to the side in thought, trying to come up with her three questions. Suddenly, her wiggling stopped and Ivar noticed how small the young woman looked from her own two feet to his.

  
“Maksura, broken,” she formulated, tapped with her stone cold foot against his, “how?” 

  
Self consciously, Ivar shuffled his feet a few inches away from hers and threw a bunch of hay on his legs in a pathetic attempt to hide his biggest insecurity. 

  
“I was born like this,” he answered truthfully, “one of nature's mistakes,” he added bitterly. 

  
Piglet stared up at him dully: “Allah no make mistakes.” 

  
Ivar snorted, shocked by the nonsense coming from her mouth: “Let me get straight with you Piglet, your God has nothing to do with me. He did not make me, because he doesn’t exist. It’s a false God, like the one those Christians worship. All frauds in the all-seeing eye of Odin.” 

  
Piglet rolled her eyes at Ivar’s blasphemy and hummed, thinking of her next question. 

  
“Why fight toothless?” She asked and ticked on her front teeth when Ivar didn’t understand who she was talking about.

  
“Because I can.” He answered.

  
“Hamar,” Piglet flatly told him. 

  
“No, I’m not Piglet!” Ivar snarled aggravated, “the Giant -the toothless- can break every bone in my body, cut my throat and bleed me dry, but he’ll _ never _ have ultimate power over me. I won’t grant him that, you know yourself that there are things far worse in this life then death. And one of them is losing spirit. He’ll never be able to take that from me, I will taunt him, every day, the best I can without dying, until there comes the opportune moment and then I’ll kill him. Yes, I’ll slaughter the toothless,” Ivar added when Piglet’s cheeks lost a bit of their usual dark color, “they days of the toothless are numbered.” 

  
“Kill?” Piglet spoke breathlessly. 

  
Ivar chuckled, “yes, of course,” and held up both hands, “with my bare hands. And teeth,” he said and showed her his teeth. 

  
In her dark eyes, a part of her adoration for him seemed to be shattered. Which was incomprehensible for Ivar, where he came from, murder was not a sin. Murder was one of the numerous ways to become memorable and glorious. Of course his kingdom wasn’t a cradle of pure anarchy, there were rules, rights and punishments, but murder certainly wasn’t the worst crime. 

  
So when Piglet stared at him, as if he’d suddenly turned into a three headed monster, he felt a twinge of dread in his chest. For he hadn’t done anything wrong, yet she judged him and his ways. 

  
“If I kill the toothless, you’d perceive me as evil?” he questioned toneless. 

  
Piglet nodded and stared at her fingers, as she ticked at the hay.

  
“Why?” Ivar asked, “that man abuses you, beats you, mistreats you. Why am I evil  _ when _ I rip out his heart?” he emphasized the word  _ when _ , because he certainly wanted to give her the impression that he  _ would. _

_   
_ Piglet did not answer, instead she picked up the knucklebones and threw them on the floor. This round Ivar managed to win. 

Now if he wanted to get any information out of Piglet, he needed to play this out with a silk glove, because she already looked at him like a rabbit trapped by a string. 

  
“What’s your favorite food?”

  
His first question visibly surprised her and little warmth returned to her face: “basbousa,” she brought her fingers to her lips as her thoughts traveled back to a place far away from the shed. 

  
“Cake, warm, sticky,” she continued and bit her lip to sustain the happy memory as long as she could. It was all both of them had left, bittersweet reminders of the past that faded faster and faster each day. 

  
“What’s your favorite animal?” Ivar went on, keeping his questions light.

  
“Khuruf, sheep,” she answered, plucking at her blanket. 

  
“And what’s your biggest fear?” Ivar asked. 

  
“ _ Men _ ,” she stated immediately and Ivar felt the need to punch himself. He’d foolishly expected an answer such as spiders or the dark, for those had been the fears he’d used against the thralls that took care of him when he was young. But of course Piglet’s fear was not of such innocent things.

  
She picked up the bones and started another game without wasting another breath. Ivar managed to win again to his delight. 

  
“Where are you from?” 

  
“Nubia.”

  
“Nubia?” Ivar repeated, wondering if that was her country or the name of her village, “now where is that?” 

  
He was prying too much, her eyebrows rose and she huffed: “far.” 

  
“And how many winters have you been away from Nubia?” Ivar asked.

  
“Eshr, ten.” 

  
“What’s your name Piglet? Your real name?” 

  
His companion remained silent for a while and stared into the distance with a fixed expression before eying him up and down, raising three fingers.

  
“ _ Three  _ question game,” was all she said before picking up the bones and ambling away. 

  
Ivar allowed himself to fall back into the hay and let out a frustrated sigh, before shoving hay around and over his body. That woman was utterly frustrating, she hardly spoke a word and if she did it was mostly an insult or a way of belittling him. 

  
“You better not think you're going to sleep here again,” Ivar snapped when he heard her mince her way back to him, dragging her blanket through the hay and dirt, “that was a one-time deal, you reek and-” 

  
She wrapped the blanket over his shoulder and silently laid down underneath it with her back against his. Ivar let his fingers feel the thin fabric of the cocoon for the night and sensed the warmth spreading against his tense shoulders. 

  
“- _ Fine _ ,” he grunted sullen and nicked some more of the blanket before allowing himself to fall asleep. But just like for the previous night, he slept with one eye open for he was Piglet’s safe keeper. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: For those of you who wonder, Nubia was the ancient name of Sudan. So that’s where Piglet’s from. I know that in this chapter their communication grew a lot and for those who think that’s a little bit too fast or remarkable, remember that Rollo managed to learn French in one episode:P  _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	20. Wolf at the table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsters come in many shapes and sizes, in their case the monster was a mere five and a half feet tall and talked with a lisp

.-.-.

Ivar was seated underneath one of the kitchen tables. His back arched against one of the massive legs as he tried to massage the muscle ache from his calf. His legs started to hurt more now that the cold had settled within the castle as well. The stone floor was ice cold and since he was forced to sit on it all through the day, every inch of his body grew stiff. 

The beehive around him started to reach its boiling point as dinner was about to be served. During that time he was left alone and Ivar treasured every minute of it. He fell back into the role of the silent observer, watching feet hurry or tiptoe around his table. He’d managed to distinguish between all the different footsteps; Little Cunt was easiest to recognize due to her walking stick. A step, scrunch, step, scrunch. 

Big Cunt had a long-legged stride and would avoid his table, she must have known he was the deviant that tied her laces together. 

The linen maidens seemed to flutter over the floor as if they were dancers. Always in a hurry, always in a rush to do whatever Little Cunt wished. 

The Giant made so much noise that Ivar could detect the man the moment he stepped into the hallway. The Giant moved around with large and heavy steps, as a man who ruled his world, untouchable and blinded by his own self indulgence. Which made him stupid and sloppy. 

The drama Ivar created when he refused to speak had a positive side-effect, because Ivar was no longer in shackles when he worked inside the kitchen. He was no longer perceived as a threat by the others, which was very ironic because he carried around a murder weapon. 

Food was being served, which meant most of the staff was heading into the dining room, each with a tray or pitcher in their hands. 

Ivar hadn’t seen the dining room yet, which wasn’t odd—he had no reason to be there. That didn't mean he wasn’t curious about it though. As most of the footsteps rushed into the hallway, he wondered about the size and grandeur? of all the other rooms inside the castle. 

The footsteps died out and like a snake,Ivar slithered from underneath his table. Now that he was granted a few moments of peace he’d like to explore. 

And of course his eyes focused on the collection of knives stashed alongside the chopping boards. 

Ivar’s sleeve sopped or soaked up grease as he pulled himself up against the counter. Someone had been copping carrots and onions, the inedible parts of the vegetable still lay on the chopping board, next to the knife. 

Ivar picked it up as he overheard a pair of footsteps head toward the kitchen, one that did not make him retreat. Instead, he met Piglet with a smug grin as he jammed the knife deep within the wood of the chopping board.

“Ivar!” Piglet hissed in alarm and ushered him away from the kitchen counter. 

“Don’t play knife”,she scolded benevolently and pointed to his table, “ancient wench hit you”. 

Ivar smirked, pleased that Piglet had been so eager to use his curse words for Little Cunt and crawled back to the table. It took him longer than usual to move around. His shoulder still ached from when the Giant twisted his arm onto his back. 

Piglet fetched him some food and something far more precious—beer. 

It had been so long since Ivar drank anything alcoholic and when the young woman placed a cup underneath the table, he drained it in one gulp. 

He shuffled the cup back to Piglet’s feet with an overly thirsty cough and received another filling. 

“Shukraan,” he thanked her and slouched back against the wooden table leg, satisfied and slightly light headed. After he finished his plate, he must have dozed off for a moment, because when he opened his eyes the linen maidens had returned to do a preposterous amount of dishes. Piglet was humming as she swept the floor. Ivar listened to her voice, there was happiness inside her hum, something carefree that only ever manifested within her voice or eyes when she tended for her animals or mentioned her previous life.

Ivar listened to the wordless melody and wondered about the words that weren’t voiced. And about the meaning behind those words, was it a lullaby, a religious chant? Whatever it was to Piglet, the song embodied the little joy she had in life. 

It died out abruptly and completely when rhythmless footsteps stalked through the hallway. 

Ivar sat up so fast he nearly head-butted his forehead into the table. Those were undoubtedly the footsteps of Ludolf.

The three young women stopped dead in their tracks and from that moment, their differences in religion and color faded away. Panic united those three young women as their shared tormentor lingered in the doorway. All were wide eyed, pupils dilated in a frenzy of fright, too indoctrinated with severe punishment to surrender to their flight or fight impulse. 

Monsters come in many shapes and sizes, in their case the monster was a mere five and a half feet tall and talked with a lisp. 

Ivar gnashed his jaws together, if only those damn linen maids hadn’t been present. He could have murdered that bastard without any witnesses. He was free of chains and figured Piglet would be grateful enough to help him leave the castle. But now he had two pairs of eyes and two mouths that could cause him too much trouble. And he feared that if he’d slit the throat of those two pompous bitches Piglet would condemn him as evil. He did not dare take that risk and lose his only ally. Without Piglet, his chances of fleeing the castle were close to none. 

Ludolf spoke three words, they sounded like an order. The young man walked into the kitchen and sat down at Ivar’s table.

It was hard to contain himself; it would have been so pleasing to drive his knife into those posh calf leather boots. 

Ludolf repeated his words, harsher this time and Piglet jumped into action. Ivar watched her feet tiptoe closer to his table and heard her pour a drink for her ruler. 

Oh the unfairness, a victim serving her abuser, Ivar felt his anger boil up and tried to choke it. Any rash decisions could cause their heads to be decapitated.

The game of cat and mouse played on above his head. Ludolf ordered a refill, which Piglet obeyed. Her toes curled up after inching backwards and the scent of cold sweat poured out of every pore. 

When Ludolf finished his drink he slammed his cup down onto the table, causing the three women to gasp in fright. Ludolf’s chair crunched over the stone floor painfully slow. The ruler stood up and took a direct step towards Piglet, who at her turn leaped a big one back. Placing her pitcher on the table she took another cautious step aside to place the table between herself and Ludolf. 

The game became more interesting from the predator’s side. Ludolf took a swift step to the left and Piglet jumped to the right. Ludolf laughed and passed to the right as Piglet nearly tripped over her own feet to run to the left. 

Ivar sat underneath the table, knuckles white from clenching his fists too hard and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent. With unwavering focus, he watched two calf leather boots move back and forth, all while rage blazed through his system.

Ludolf never expected a wolf underneath his table and cried out like a girl when Ivar sank his teeth into his ankle. With an unflattering dive down, Piglet’s tormentor fell on his arse while Ivar tasted blood. 

He received a kick across the face, but he laughed madly.

“You even kick like a girl,” Ivar bellowed while a mixture of saliva and blood dripped down his chin. Ludolf’s blood, the blood of the enemy. 

Ivar licked his lips, savoring the sweet taste of vengeance while Ludolf crawled back pale-faced and absolute gobsmacked by the audacity of the crippled slave. 

Ivar wasn’t granted much time to enjoy his victory. Big Cunt strolled into the kitchen and dropped every plate she held by the sight of her master floored and Ivar’s mouth covered with blood. 

The shattering of porcelain caused more bystanders to appear. Ludolf took that opportunity to cry out and clasp his ankle. The first row of bystanders was swept aside by the Giant and Ivar realized his bloody revenge might cost him his life. 

.-.-.

Ivar did not sleep inside the shed that night. He was locked deep down into the dungeon of the castle, with only a high barred window that granted his prison a smidgen of moonlight. The quarry stone walls were moist and fungus had set. The only sounds were the high pitched squeaks and hisses coming from rats. The place was infested by the vermin, known to jump a foot and a half, which caused Ivar to retreat against the wall with his knees up to his chest. 

In his hand he held the knife, prepared to use it if one of the scurvy creatures dared to creep up his legs. 

The Gods had abandoned him again and death lingered on his doorstep. Ivar wondered if Heilhem or Valhalla awaited him as he’d be leaving Midgard soon. He’d managed to inflict harm on a Christian, but he could have done far more damage if it weren't his heart that had been thinking for him instead of his guts. 

‘See, this is what you get, if you tend to care for others. You grow weak, weakling’, Ivar told himself bitterly. 

He was not scared for what the morning would bring; it would simply be an agonizing transfer into another realm. Pain was simply an unwelcome acquaintance; one he’d met and endured his entire life. Pain dissolved your common sense; ate you from the inside out or battered you from the inside out. 

But in the end, it always faded away until all you could taste, breath and be was sweet oblivion. 

So why fear something that had a clear beginning and such liberating end? 

His passing would simply be a new beginning and by the Gods, maybe in his next life he’d be blessed with strong legs. Maybe he’d be able to roam his next world freely, redeemed from his handicap and shameful byname. 

With that prospect, shouldn’t he be happy instead of feeling so remorseful? He’d done everything in his power to keep Piglet from harm and he’d even die because of it. 

Then why did he feel as if he’d betrayed her, for being happy to desert this place? Why did it bother him so much that he was never going to see her again? Because surely his Gods and hers did not want to mix their believers. 

“Furry little bastard!” Ivar’s knife flung into the darkness and sank into the soft tissue of a rat’s belly. The animal let out a faint hiss as Ivar twisted the knife and dragged the spastic body closer. It was a small sacrifice to Odin, to Thor. To a father and a son. To hopefully be reunited with his father. 

He extracted the knife and sank his middle and index finger into the inflicted wound. Warm blood oozed up to his touch and he used it to draw an R on his forehead. A runen R, which stood for radi ō, ‘a journey’. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: First off, I’d like to thank @Sarrah-jane for helping me out majorly by beta-reading this chapter! Valhalla has a chair reserved for you!  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ Back to the story: you know as a writer when you cook up something bad and you think ‘can I do this to my favorite character’ and then do it anyways? Well, that’s pretty much the next chapter. I haven’t written the actual words, but you know, all the scenes are in my head…. Dumdumdummm…

_ About this chapter, I like how it started all soft, with Ivar actually being in a pleasant mood. Also like the double meaning of the chapter title ‘wolf at the table’, it’s again about Ludolf and Ivar. One being AT the table and one being UNDER it.  _

_ The ending of this chapter is, I guess bittersweet? What I like about the whole Viking spirit is that they don’t condemn certain subjects as we do. Murder or killing isn’t necessarily bad nor is dying. Ivar doesn’t fear death or what he’s going to face, but there is that shimmer of grief, for he won’t be able to see his companion when he crosses over.  _

_ That was all for today, I hope I’ll have a spare moment of free time so I can drabble down some uncensored torture.  _

_ Xoxoxox Nukyster  _


	21. Forty minus one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe”, he thought, “this is not the worst day to die”; he honestly didn’t believe he’d survive the winter.

Ivar awoke by the first sunlight of dawn. The white rays were watery and cold, like the temperature in the dungeon. Frost had slowly allowed itself to enter the castle’s walls and inched inside, ridding Ivar’s prison cell of the last bits of warmth. 

Ivar did not recall if he slept or lost consciousness due to the cold. He guessed the latter, as the bitter cold had chilled his fingers into useless numbness and crept further down into his body. It spread painfully from his toes into his feet robbing his skin of all color. 

“Maybe”, he thought, “this is not the worst day to die”; he honestly didn’t believe he’d survive the winter.

The cold of night had robbed him of strength, but not of spirit. He would not fight his death but he’d do everything in his power to keep his jaws locked and mouth shut. He’d undergo whatever punishment those Christians thought proper for his crime and die with dignity.

A gust of frigid wind wrapped around him like a shawl woven by ice itself. His teeth chattered as he tried to warm his body by rocking back and forth.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He began to lose his sense of time. Back and forth, back and forth. Hunger gnawed a hole in his stomach. Back and forth, back and forth. 

The dead rat slowly but steadily became a reasonable meal. Back and forth, back and forth.

“Ivar?” 

Ivar glanced up to the barred window. It was Piglet; in order for her to peek into Ivar’s prison cell she had to lay her head on the ground. 

“Piglet?” Ivar crawled underneath the window and stared up, squinting his eyes. The young woman above reached back for a moment and managed to shove her arm through the bars. 

A polished, red apple dropped into Ivar’s lap.

“Ivar…” her voice was brittle and soft; she reached further down into the cell as a desperate attempt for a last connection. 

It was impossible. Even if Ivar had been able to stand, the walls were too high. 

“I guess this is it then Piglet, we had a good run,” Ivar spoke toneless, watching her hand reach and wave, “we were a proper match you and I. It’s a shame you believe in a false God…” and that was where he stopped himself from becoming sentimental. Because both of them were aware they would never see each other again, there was no reason to voice the truth. 

“A shame,” he ended and shut out all of her weeping. For a while, her arm remained reaching and waving, but as Ivar remained silent, Piglet eventually gave up and left. 

He’d never know if she’d spoken any last words of goodbye for him, because he blocked everything out, all while eating her apple. Even the core, because he did not want her to get in trouble and he could use all the strength given. 

**.-.-.** **  
**

Overnight the lessers of the castle had placed a beech wooden pole in the centre near the well. It wouldn’t be the only silent witness of Ivar’s punishment. The rest of the bystanders were already buzzing and whispering about what was to come. 

The Giant hadn’t been pleased with Ivar’s forehead statement and had wiped off the Runen R with spit and his sleeve. 

The cobblestones bruised his knees as Ivar was shoved, poked, and kicked in order to get into the centre. 

The three rulers and the fair maiden had taken place nearest the pole, seated on wooden chairs. Their place had the best view for the spectacle, although Lambertus and his wife, Haedwien, did not look pleased with being present. The fair maiden had her hand pressed against her mouth, cheeks pale and on the verge of getting sick. 

And Ludolf, sat sunken on his seat, bored and maybe even a bit embarrassed. For it was due to his “wound” that the slave had to suffer and be an example for the rest. The bystanders were on foot, nudging and pulling to get to the front row. 

For some reason Ivar was pleased to see the Christians fight for the best spot, at least those soulless bastards had some sense of bloodlust. Maybe they were more Viking then they’d like to admit. 

Ivar was forced on his knees, facing the pole. His arms were stretched far above his head and tied to the beech wood. A knife was dragged jaggedly through his humble tunic, tearing the fabric open, baring his back, shoulders and neck completely. 

“Will they Bloodeagle me?” Ivar wondered stunned, as he pressed his cheek against the wood in an attempt to pick up everything that was happening behind him. But his arms were tied too high, leaving his face and most of his upper body pressed against the pole, minimizing his mobility. 

The Giant spoke some biblical nonsense; Ivar concluded from the Giant’s tone. Ivar’s assumption was completely confirmed when he heard the book slam shut. 

The first lash came completely unexpected and Ivar broke his solemn rule—to keep his mouth shut. A pain plagued hiss managed to escape through his teeth. The second lash managed to hit the exact same position as the first and cut through Ivar’s skin. A tortuously slow pattern emerged, one of two lashes and then a moment of ease. Ivar later learned that moment of pause wasn’t for him, no, it was for the Giant, so his arm would not tire. 

The lashes seemed to rip Ivar open to the marrow, like rigged daggers the leather dug deeper and deeper into his skin. Time did not matter anymore; all that remained was the rhythm of the lashes. 

A scream from deep within forced its way from Ivar’s mouth, it was not one of fright, but one formed entirely of anger that unleashed itself like a demon. It took two more lashes to silence him, fists clenching and teeth locking up all of his remaining sound. Now that his anger escaped him, there was only despair. 

Ivar lost count after fifteen, his ears were ringing and he could no longer see clearly. His mind seemed afloat; his body a vacant, aching shell. There was a low indistinct sound, almost animalistic. It took him a moment to realize those where his own hoarse moans. 

The cobblestones wore more and more spatters of Ivar’s blood. It did not take many more lashes for his battered skin to peel loose, falling down at his knees like bloody autumn leaves. 

A deep, raspy caw called down to him. Ivar’s eyes were able to focus enough on the top of the pole to see the black silhouette of a raven, contrasting against the milky white sky. 

“Father—“ Ivar watched the bird as his front teeth scraped over the beech wood.

The raven cawed again, its beady eyes mercilessly taking in the scene beneath it. With wings black as tar, it gracefully landed near Ivar’s knees. Ravens were known for their curiosity, but even they knew their limits. It wasn’t common for birds to come so near such a large crowd of humans. But the raven did not show any hesitation and pecked at the remains of Ivar’s skin. It peeked up again, taking a piece of Ivar before lifting off, heading off into the milky white sky. 

Ivar inhaled a sharp breath as the leather tore at his skin again, but this time he felt elevated. 

“You can beat every inch of my body,” he whispered hoarsely, “but you cannot kill me. Not today, because I am Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and I have my father’s blessings.” 

His eyes rolled back as his body was close to giving in to the immense pain scorching his entire back. The crowd had grown silent; most faces contorted with plagued expressions. The fair maiden had fled the scene. Ludolf’s lips were twisted into a satisfied, lopsided and sadistic smile. 

Pain prevails over every emotion. It conquers lust, hunger, envy, hatred. Pain can divide brothers by blood; it can drive wise men mad. 

To triumph over pain, you need to be extraordinary—near Godly. 

In between the last few lashes, Ivar had an epiphany: he could not die before he’d fulfilled his destiny. And, although he did not know what lay in his future, he wholeheartedly believed the Gods had laid out an exceptional path for him. It became quite clear; he had beat death too many times to simply die by the hands of a Christian commoner. 

Maybe he deserved this punishment, for he’d questioned the Gods too many times and cursed them for turning him from a cripple prince into a slave. His mother had been a Vülva, able to see the past, present and future. But interpreting the will of the Gods was hard, maybe she’d seen his death wrong and had it merely been a rebirth. 

He’d been resurrected from death, by his father, time after time. So for today, Hellheim and Valhalla had to wait for his arrival, for he had his destiny to fulfill. 

**.-.-.**

In the bible Moses’ Law referred to flagellation; the law itself meant forty lashes less one; thirty-nine lashes. The term was meant as a biblical one, in that 40 lashes were determined enough to kill a man, according to the Old Testament and thus 39 lashes was the most you give a man without declaring a penalty of death. 

Today the crippled slave of de Haar survived forty. 

**.-.-.  
**

_A/N: I’m not going to lie, I’ve been so impatient to write this chapter. At the start, I only had a few guidelines: hurt, massive hurt and excruciating hurt. But then I figured I had to keep Ivar’s spirit intact in order for him to survive. So yes, once again Ragnar in the form of a Raven reappeared. As I’ve mentioned before, you can see this every way you like, spiritual, emotional. Is it just a young man in desperate need of comfort, or is there truly a link between Midgard and Valhalla? Pick whatever you please. And in case you wonder, I’ve made up Ivar’s entire path towards his destiny like the moment I started writing this story. In my head, it’s all written out, wrapped into a trilogy. Now just the time to drabble it all out._  
  
The 40 minus 1 is a true thing btw, I’ve done some (too much) research, it’s believed that Jesus received 39 whippings and since I’ve thrown Christianity into the mix I figured I might as well add some information as well.

_So that was it for today, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, or sat there cringing in your chair, either way I’ve done my job well._

_Xoxoxo Nukyster_


	22. Crossfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a martyr was someone who suffered persecution and death for advocating a religious belief or for a good cause.

.-.-.

Ivar was brought back to the shed and dropped on his stomach, although he wasn’t aware of his transition. Unconsciousness momentarily redeemed him from the flaring pain spreading all over his back like a wildfire. The battered skin in between his shoulder blades had ruptured due to the lashes, leaving large bloody gashes. 

  
In a flash, he regained consciousness as his faithful guardian took it upon herself to disinfect his wounds. Although her touch was soft, pain seared through his upper body better than a branding iron. 

  
Bloody cloth after bloody cloth dropped aside Ivar’s writhing body; pain taking over a good portion of his brain. It was all consuming, his mind conceding in agony but aware of the necessity of Piglet’s torture. So he balled his fist and tried his best to lessen the primeval noises that come from his mouth; that of a dying animal. 

  
The pain burned and radiated, it should have shattered his soul but deep down Ivar saw the blessing in his pain, it brought him closer to his Gods, it made him realise he was inviolable.

  
Piglet applied a salve, which smelled of honey, plantain, and chamomile while humming her song in candlelight. Ivar listened and turned his head so that he could look up to her. The young woman’s face revealed how badly his wounds were; her forehead puckered, lips set in a grim line and her hands were shaking. 

  
“Lay flat,” she said matter-of-factly, which was an unnecessary order, because he wasn’t planning to move, not even an inch. He lay still as hay tickled his face and nose.

  
Piglet eventually curled up on her side to face him properly. 

  
“Thick-head,” she sneered, eyes clearly upset over the hell he’d put himself through.

  
“Savage cunt,” Ivar murmured back apologetically. 

  
“Did he come for you?” Ivar asked when Piglet was done rolling her eyes skywards, “last night?” 

  
“No, he walks funny now,” Piglet revealed with a devilish grin, “you’re a mad dog.” 

  
Ivar gave her an all-tooth smile, very pleased with the thought of marking the young ruler.    
  


.-.-.

Ivar’s punishment had caused a change inside the castle’s walls. Although daily routine started as winter swiped through the shed with icy claws like an eagle, the atmosphere was different. The Giant spat his orders into Piglet’s face, but kept far away from Ivar’s box, as if his cripple slave was stricken by the plague. 

  
Ivar had expected the brute to give him another kick after, definitely now that he lay battered and defenseless on the floor. 

  
But the Giant left along with Piglet, leaving Ivar to face boredom and cold. His mobility was close to none, every moment hurt and could cause the cuts to rip further. Being exposed to fresh air would accelerate the healing process; the downside was being awfully cold. 

  
Ivar slept for the most part of the day and was awoken by the fluttering footsteps of the two linen maidens. Both young women seemed anxious to step over the threshold, but eventually curiosity got the best of them. 

  
With large doe-like eyes the two maidens kneeled down at his box and took in every inch of Ivar’s battered body. 

  
Being the main act of their freak show wasn’t actually how Ivar had planned his afternoon, but aside from throwing daggers with his eyes there wasn’t much he could do about it. 

  
One of the two maidens then did something unexpected, she clasped her hands together and started a soft prayer while the other placed two thick woolen blankets next to his trough. 

  
After a brief hail Mary, both maidens hurried to get up and fled the shed, leaving Ivar completely dumbstruck. 

  
That same event occurred two more times with different people. A peasant mother and daughter snuck inside the stable to behold Ivar’s beat down form and placed a bowl of goat milk aside his box before leaving. Two youngsters ogled him for a while before daring to enter the stable and, instead of throwing stones, left one of their most treasured possessions; a sling and a wooden miniature toy horse.

  
Piglet was less humble about entering and burst out laughing when she noticed all the gifted items. Shaking her head, she nicked the milk and brought it closer to Ivar. It was awkward drinking milk while lying flat, but Ivar managed without spilling too much. 

  
“Ivar  _ the bloody _ ,” Piglet sniggered and drank some herself, “martyr.”

  
And so, Ivar learned he’d been given a new nickname among the poor population of de Haar. ‘De martelaar’,  _ The Martyr _ , as Piglet put it. She explained as good as her Nordish vocabulary allowed her that a martyr was someone who suffered persecution and death for advocating a religious belief or for a good cause. Apparently, Piglet’s life was useless, yet her virtue was considered sacred enough to fight and nearly die for in the eyes of the slaves, serfs and servants. 

  
Although Ivar completely despised the way his punishment was now silently considered a holy statement, he did enjoy the benefits; proper food, warmth in forms of decent clothing and blankets. And he must admit, the smoldering eyes of the female population fully in awe of his quote on quote ‘scars of true heroism’, flattered his ego greatly. 

  
Piglet managed to keep her lips in a proper shape and hands clasped together as she registered all the gifts and from time to time ushered spectators out who dared to take too much time of the healing martyr. 

  
After a few days Ivar managed to turn on his side without rupturing the gashes, Piglet wasn’t happy with it, but Ivar had to place himself in another position. Laying still for an extended amount of time caused so much ache in his legs he’d rather cut his own skin open again. 

  
His body was no longer an unblemished canvas, but he had come to treasure his first won symbols of victory. He victored a Christian death, for even his crippled body was stronger than that of the enemy. 

  
Was Ivar simply a stubborn young man, willing himself to survive torture, or did he lay there as something sacred in the punishment brought upon him? 

  
Whatever it was, his new near holy status made it possible to survive the upcoming cold. The Giant did not bother him and stayed away from the shed. 

It even placed him on a pedestal of the more fortunate of castle De Haar...

.-.-.

A week. It took Ivar a week to be able to place himself into a sitting position. It hurt, badly and he couldn’t maintain the position for long, for it was impossible to place his back against the solidness of a wall. 

  
But it allowed him to massage his legs. Kneading his calloused fingers into the poor muscle tone of his calves his heart ached for a hot bath. And the warmth of a fire. And the satisfaction of a belly filled with mead. 

  
The fallen prince extended his wish-list and glanced up puzzled as the door creaked. It was an odd hour for his so-called worshippers to risk a peek. Everyone should be working, it was way past lunch. 

  
Cocooned in the finest of silk and furs, the fair maiden desecrated her sandals as she tiptoed into the shed. Ivar’s mouth dropped as she came closer, Kattegat was known for their beautiful women but this maiden outshone them all. 

  
He could not breath, eyes drawn to her golden locks that gently caressed its way down to her neck, reaching her bosom. If her God was real, Ivar told himself, then this woman was one of His masterpieces. 

She was scared, petrified. Ivar failed to find reason in her fright, for he was still recovering and enchained for the matter. Her hurried glances over her shoulder revealed her true dread; she wasn’t supposed to be here.

  
Now, this drew Ivar’s full attention. Why would a noblewoman, with so much to lose, put herself at risk for a crippled? Now this was interesting. 

  
She kneeled down, and with that pulled her cloak around her tighter to stave off the keen wind. Closing her eyes, the fair maiden started to pray, clasping her hands together and bowing her head. 

  
Now this was  _ very  _ interesting. Her submissive demeanor drew Ivar closer. As his chains rattled, the fair maiden hunched further forward and trembled. Oh, she was scared, a lamb willingly walking into a lion's den. And why, for gossip and rumors spread by her lessers? 

  
Ivar edged closer, as close as the chains allowed him. And he waited for the fair maiden to finish her prayer, out of curiosity, for he wondered what she’d do next as she’d face him from up close.    
Lowering her trembling hands the fair maiden found enough bravery in her heart to look up. And her eyes, they were, in one word, beautiful. Her eyes were a perfect spring sky and along with terror they were incarnated with sanctity. 

  
Ivar found himself bizarrely fascinated by the fair maiden’s utter devotion of her faith. She was risking hers to lay eyes on his skin, for he who was De Martelaar. 

  
With one swift move Ivar grabbed the back of her head and pulled her in. She was close, so close that he could see her heartbeat gallop underneath the fair skin of her neck. She smelled of rose water and jasmine, pure and unblemished. 

  
Ivar looked down at her trembling hands, her ring finger still lacking a wedding ring. 

  
“Poor little lamb, you’re sold off to a monster,” Ivar murmured with pity, “but I bet you already know that.” Their eyes locked like magnets and although the fair maiden couldn’t understand his language, his humble bit of sympathy didn’t go by unnoticed. With wide eyes she watched as the crippled martyr slowly rose his free hand and pressed his index finger down in between her brows. She took in a sharp breath as he drew a small cross and spoke a blessing with sencernity:

  
“God zegene u.” 

  
They were the words their holy man spoke at the end of every service. Ivar didn’t know the depth of the words, but witnessing how the fear drained from her face and got restored with hope, he knew he did little right today. 

  
“How lost you must be, if you perceive me as something biblical,” Ivar scoffed soft, lips turning in a sideway smirk, very pleased that she still allowed him to touch her. A noblewoman on her knees in filth and animal dung, so desperately in need to find a shatter of hope. 

  
Ivar’s fingers ran down the bridge of her nose fully aware that he was playing with fire, enough to burn the entire castle down. 

  
Ivar did not know what emotion drove him, was it a simple payback in regards to her fiance? Was it selfishness? Weakness? Lust? Or a simple consideration towards a beautiful young woman, to briefly veil her from the terrible truth; that she was going to be married to a monster? 

  
Whatever it was, Ivar kissed the fair maiden and the world fell away. The touch was light and soft, comforting in ways words would never be, for language was their barrier. His hand moved and rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled. 

  
The sounds of a tearing potato bag broke their spell. The fair maiden jerked her head in the direction of the sound and Ivar managed to look over her shoulder. 

  
Piglet lingered in the doorway, holding the torn bag against her chest with a pile of potatoes spread around her feet. Still as a statue the slave gawked at the scene in front of her. 

  
It was the fair maiden who broke the awful silence. As being touched by fire she jolted back, struggling to get on her feet. Shame-faced she whispered something to Piglet and managed to shove something in her hands before evacuating the shed. 

  
Piglet managed a deadpan expression all while striding with large steps into Ivar’s box. There she exploded, beating her fists into his chest and smacking him across the face. 

  
Alongside the curses in her mother tongue she managed to slip in some Nordish: 

  
“Thick-head, do you have a death wish?!” She repeated numerous times before dropping on her knees and staring up skywards. 

  
“IDIOT!” She exclaimed and thrusted her fists into the ground. “Hamar! Stupid idiot!” When Ivar failed to speak she crawled back on her feet and marched off. At the doorway she took a small pause and threw the fair maidens item across the shed. 

  
Ivar played marble until he no longer could see the back of Piglet’s head before reaching forwards in the way. He picked up a woman’s necklace. A golden cross dangling at the end.

.-.-.

_ A/N Yeah, so this happened. This was not supposed to happen. But then again, Ivar is into blondes so yeah maybe I shouldn’t have let her get down on her knees. Also I didn’t have the intentions of making Ivar a Martyr, but it’ll get the pair of them through winter and c’mon you know how good this is for his ego. Mister God complex. But fuck, why did they had to kiss. Yes I’ll I seriously need to recover from this.  _

_ Also ‘God zegene U’, means ‘God Bless you’ in Dutch. So at least he blessed her before making out with the fiance of the guy who’s responsible for tearing his entire back open. I’m team Piglet with this one, he’s a complete and utter idiot.  _

_ So, what are your thoughts of our young Prince smoothing up with the WORST OPTION in the entire castle…. _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	23. Toxic circle of the bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was how Ivar felt, like the bloody mad bear of Kattegat, doomed to crawl his routine to prevent himself from going crazy.

.-.-.

Ivar stared through his lashes at the curve of Piglet’s back. Fear had driven her back to his side of the box, but the feet of distance between them spoke volumes. Although he’d received plenty of blankets to keep him warm, he felt the coolness emanating from Piglet’s body. She absolutely despised him for kissing the fair maiden. It was an offense to their shared hatred towards the Christians and it had shown her that even though his prick did not work, he was still very capable of defiling a woman’s grace. 

  
He’d stabbed her in the back and he was very aware of that. It still did not make him feel ashamed for his actions. In his defense, how many times did it happen that a beautiful woman of wealth would kneel in front of a cripple slave? 

  
‘Once’, Ivar reminded himself firmly. This was the first time and probably the  _ last time _ , but it still had happened. He’d kissed a noble woman all while in shackles, bloody and not carrying any kind of name. So, that must mean something right? He must have done something good to be favored by the Gods. 

  
‘Ivar the bloody, the martyr,’ he thought to himself and couldn’t help but grin, ‘I like that status better than the boneless, the crippled.’

But did this new title supersede his infamous reputation of being a monster? Ivar shifted, pulling his knees up to make himself a little warmer. 

  
‘No’, he decided. Sure, in his current poor state, there were benefits to being this fraud , this image of martyrdom. Because he needed others to help him stay alive. He was fully dependent on Piglet and all of the others that brought him food and warmth. 

  
But Ivar did not consider himself born to ask and plead. If he had any say, he’d rather be the monster he was in Kattegat. There he did not need to say please; he didn’t even need to ask  _ twice  _ to get what he wanted. Fear is much stronger than empathy and kindness, he thought. Others will work twice as fast and hard when threatened. 

  
Although Ludolf was a spineless snail, Ivar still envied the young ruler. If Ivar had been in Ludolf’s shoes, he’d have the entire castle wrapped around his finger as well, all by ruling with an iron fist. 

  
A yearning sigh escaped his mouth; how he missed power and control. His lips still burned from the fair maiden’s brush. It hadn’t been much more than a peck, a brief interaction none of his brothers would bother to mention. 

  
But the touch was still there and curled up inside his thoughts, taking a very important place in his memory. 

  
Though exhaustion had been growing in his bones, a weary feeling kept him wide-awake. It wasn’t anxiety, for he did not fear the fair maiden would reveal their kiss to anyone. He’d seen the fear in her eyes when she spotted Piglet. No, he didn’t have to worry about her even mentioning her visit to his shed. 

Why was it so impossible for him to fall asleep? He needed rest; his body was still in the middle of an extreme healing process. But his mind just kept racing in circles, reminding him how soft the fair maiden’s lips had felt against his. 

Ivar curled up inside his blanket and wrestled through an endless, sleepless night. 

.-.-.

Ivar never expected himself to admit this, but he missed taking care of the pigs. Maybe even cleaning chamber pots. He’d been cooped up inside the shed for too long, without anything to do. He and Piglet were still not on speaking terms, so she was a horrible companion. She kept mostly to herself but was sure to throw occasional daggers his way. In return, he ignored her, because he was not going to apologize for his actions. 

  
There was the small group of devotees who came in occasionally with gifts and dull, pious, ogling eyes. Ivar had to admit that being perceived as something sacred was a nice change, but in the end those were Christians, the enemy. If they entered the shed Ivar mostly pretended to be fast asleep and kept up the act until they left. 

  
Moving still ached and the shackles didn’t grant him much length. Ivar did burden himself with a strict routine, to crawl in circles before and after breakfast, lunch and supper. It reminded him of the bear the men of Kattegat once caught. It was a young bear, and had been locked inside a small cage for years after being taken captive. The youngsters of Kattegat enjoyed poking the bear with sticks or throwing pebbles at it. The wild animal was a small bit of entertainment and a local attraction , so it was fed and looked after. 

  
But over time it’s mind started to deteriorate, slowly going mad, as wildlife should not be locked up behind bars. The bear started to shake with its head and chew on his front paws, passing through his cage, leaving bloody prints. It walked in circles every day, the same pace, the same steps until it’s endless circle was marked into the floor of its cage. 

  
That was how Ivar felt, like the bloody mad bear of Kattegat, doomed to crawl his routine to prevent himself from going crazy. 

  
Sitting up, he did that a few times a day and tried to remain in that position as long as the healing wounds on his back allowed. Sitting, enduring the pain, and staring at the same empty box facing him was excruciating for the mind. 

  
He tried practicing with the sling he’d been given by one of the youngsters. But if he extended his arm, the vulnerable skin on his back came close to tearing open again. So, the pebbles and small rocks did not get far. 

  
He’d found a small log during his endless circling and started carving a small man out of the wood to accompany the small toy horse he’d received. Ivar had never been the best at fine motor skills due to his large callused hands, so it bothered him immensely that the figure lacked decent features. He also had to be careful not to have the knife drawn out when one of the devotees came in. It honestly was the most thrilling event of the day, which made him even more restless. 

  
Ivar wondered if he’d even be allowed to leave the shed. He’d lost track of days but figured that by this point it had been up to three weeks since the last time he’d been touched by the sun. 

  
He’d rather bite off his own tongue than admit it, but he even missed Sunday service. It went against everything he believed in, but at least he’d be placed in a different setting. At least he’d have something else to see, faces, dresses, others...the fair maiden. At this point, everything was better than hearing the small noises of cattle and staring at that same damned box. 

  
Piglet’s relentless will to keep him alive remained strong; just like her determination to keep him feeling like shit. Her silent treatment lasted, although she made sure he was fed and she tended to the cuts on his back. 

  
At the end of one day, Ivar had spent the majority of his time blowing spit bubbles. He had enough of her holier-than-thou attitude. His short fuse had always been one of his flaws, but with the daily pain and mind shattering boredom, even that small fuse had vanished completely.

  
He grabbed Piglet by the neck when she placed his dish at his feet, and pulled her down. Ivar watched with calm eyes asPiglet fought his grip, like a rabbit in a trap. Her struggle was rather useless, because with his bear trap-of-a-hand he could easily crush her trachea. But it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen in days, so he extended her fright by applying more pressure. 

  
Now this was thrilling, finding and securing this fine balance between life and death. Being in control, pushing her to her limit, all while preventing her from choking or going into a seizure. He watched her with a fixated death-stare, ignoring her small fist beating against his chest. Feeling her heartbeat pulse against his palms and fingers was far more interesting. 

  
“I’m done with you ignoring me, Piglet”, Ivar said contemptuously, “stop your silly childish act and speak.  _ SPEAK TO ME _ !” He shouted in her face, nose nearly touching hers before easing his grip, but his hand remained circled around her throat.

  
Piglet’s first breath was that of a small whimper, sucking in as much air as her lungs allowed her, eyes still bulging out of their sockets. 

  
“ _ Men, _ all the same!” There was no heat in her voice. Although her fist had lacked strength, her words packed a powerful punch, “all the same!” Without a warning she head butted him, felt how his grip lessened for a mere moment, and then kneed him hard in the groin. 

  
Ivar’s hand abandoned her throat, shooting down to his crotch to cradle. Piglet took her chance and pulled herself back on her feet. 

  
With spite, she kicked Ivar’s bowl in his direction and the wood bounced against his head, most of the content spilling over him. 

  
“All the same!” Where Piglet’s final words before taking her place for the night, a few inches on the good side of her makeshift line. 

.-.-.

Seven more days passed, Ivar carved it down into the wooden panel of his box. Seven  _ long  _ days of being deprived from sun and fresh air,of decent human contact-even the devotees had shown up less and less. He started to become old news. 

  
He started to become the bear of Kattegat. Instead of chewing his fingers to the bone he’d carved a cut into the skin of his wrist. The dull blade had trouble piercing his skin, but once succeeding the blood spilled rich. 

  
The pain was sharp and invasive; it was nice to feel something again. For an endless amount of time, Ivar watched the pattern of the blood run down his wrist, dripping down into the hay,forming a small puddle. With his fingertips, he used the blood to paint Rune symbols onto the wooden board, next to the seven-day markings. 

  
The D for Dagaz, daylight, the rune for balance between light and dark, for opening and closure. 

  
The O for Odhil, the rune for land, culture and spirit, for wealth that’s not for sale. 

  
Ivar wanted to draw more, but was prevented by Piglet who yanked on his bleeding arm.    
She cursed him in her mother’s tongue as blood flowed and splattered down upon her tattered rags. 

  
“Why you want to die?” She threw at him, digging her fingers deep into his wrist. 

  
Ivar calmly raised his eyebrow and chuckled coldly. “ _ Die _ , dear Piglet? Why on earth do you think I want to  _ die _ ? Aren't I needed to protect your virtue?” 

  
Piglet’s nostrils flared and she did not respond. Instead, she tore off a string of her dress and tied it around Ivar’s wrist. 

  
“Aren’t I just your bloody pet dog Piglet, kept alive and fed to keep your demon away?” Ivar continued hissing through his teeth. 

  
“But don’t you worry dear Piglet, your demon has a new toy to play with,” Ivar continued, “maybe that’s what has turned you into this sour bitch, because you know you’re far from being beautiful. Always a second choice, spoiled goods, dirty and different.” 

  
Ivar knew he hit the right button when she slapped him across the face. Good, let her feel like absolute shit for a change. She was able to roam freely over the grounds of castle De Haar, gifted protection from him. He’d bled for her, she should be grateful instead of being this impossible silent no-good. 

“This is all because of you Piglet,” Ivar pulled his shirt up and showed his battered backside, “I’ve endured that for you and you treat me like a waste of space all because of what? I stole a kiss? I am only human and took what is probably my last opportunity to feel the warmth of a woman. I know you’d rather be skinned alive then to let me touch you, yet you expect me to be, what? Be faithful to you and you alone?” Ivar laughed but it was bitter.

  
“That’s not how it works Piglet, you do not own or control me. I respect you, for you’ve cared for me even though you didn’t have to. But I’m not your damn cattle. Not your damn sheep, I do whatever I please.” 

  
Ivar sat up and glared at Piglet who remained completely silent and blank, although her shaking fist told him she understood his words perfectly well. 

  
“If you want me to protect your body, you start speaking to me again. Play games with me, entertain me, by the Gods flatter me with a smile every once in a while.” Ivar summoned up his demands. “I don’t care if I must bleed for you again, but I hate you for the disrespect you’ve given me.”

  
Her temper was one to match, Ivar had to give her that. Those smoldering dark eyes were a shield and sword on their own. But her eyes were eventually the first ones to look away as her mind worked out that the fine balance between the both of them had to be restored. 

  
“ _ Fine _ ,” she eventually spat.

  
“I have a name,” Ivar pushed to make his point.

  
“Fine,  _ Ivar _ ,” Piglet managed to pour so much venom into pronouncing his name that the syllables seemed toxic. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: It’s safe to say that Ivar can’t handle women. And Piglet isn’t an actual star at handling Ivar. I think they are both damaged, which causes them to be so cruel to one another. Piglet’s biggest fear is men, all men in general. I think she wants to be able to trust Ivar completely but he does shitty things which prevents her from letting her guard down. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ And Ivar, well he’s just a complete cluster bomb, gets his emotions all over the place and acts in the worst way possible. It’s his shortcoming and his gilded-cage upbringing I guess. For the majority of his life he could simply force people to dance for him. This doesn’t work anymore, although he tries to maintain this level of control and power. We’ve seen this before, he’s forcing Piglet to speak to him, using either his physical power or by simply threatening her. It’s sad really, because I think he’s just inadequate, hasn’t learned how to behave as a normal human being. He wanted to be a monster, because being a boy was simply too hard. A rather sad and lonely path, but as the bear in the cage, if you’ve been pacing that same circle over and over, it’s hard to take another direction. To ‘Change Course’.  _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _

  
  
  



	24. Safe keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're cursed Ivar."

.-.-.

Piglet had taken Ivar’s demands to heart and had the decency to portray herself as a cheerful companion. The ten years of being a slave taught her to mold herself into the perfect image, to whoever had a claim at her. 

  
Ivar didn’t buy her overcompensation for a bit and refused to eat anything he hadn’t seen her previously take a bite from herself. Piglet, the queen mother of spoiling meals. 

  
But Ivar would rather have this actress clinging to his lips and dancing to his needs then have Piglet relapse into that impossible state of smolder and angry eyes. 

  
Piglet talked more, too, which meant she spoke over four words. She kept her talks to basic chit-chat; about her labour, about the animals. The cold, the kitchen bitches. But it was nice to hear someone speak in his mother tongue while playing a game. 

  
“Have you seen the fair maiden?”, Ivar asked bluntly while it was Piglet’s turn to throw the knucklebones. 

  
Piglet’s dull stare and raised eyebrow told him enough; she was playing dumb again. Ivar pulled the golden necklaces from his pocket and let the cross spin in front of Piglet’s face.

  
“The fair maiden who gave me this,” Ivar continued, “have you seen her recently?” 

  
Piglet was clearly not amused that he brought up his “quote-unquote”  _ mistake _ . It showed in her bearing, although she tried her best to maintain a blank face. 

  
“No”, was her simple and short answer and she threw the knucklebones on the floor. “Your turn.”

  
Ivar wasn’t willing to settle with such a useless answer and swiped the bones away. 

  
“Speak the truth Piglet,” he warned her. 

  
“I am,” Piglet stated, annoyed. “Play Ivar,” she pushed and nudged her head to his balled fist. 

‘And we’re back at four words’, Ivar thought to himself, rolling his eyes as he tossed the knucklebones in the sand. In a flash he counted the pieces and smirked.

  
“I win”, he stated and Piglet huffed, “you lose, Piglet.”

Recollecting the bones Ivar dared to ask Piglet a very direct question: “Have you ever been in love?”

  
Piglet smiled, but it wasn’t her bright smile that showed her perfect teeth and crinkled her cheeks into dimples. This was a condescending smile. 

  
“I hate men, Ivar.” She testified and pretended that his question did not take her off guard. His words turned her jittery, made her fingers wrinkle and unwrinkle the tattered fabric of her skirt. 

  
Ivar noticed: “But yet here you are, playing games with me. I’m a  _ man _ .”

  
Piglet seemed appalled by his statement and made a face as if he’d forced her to eat a slug.    
“Maksura,” she nodded to his legs and then eyed up at his crotch, “you’re broken, you don’t count as  _ men _ .”

This was a very nasty blow below the belt and Ivar’s jaws tightened. She was pushing all the right buttons to make him stop speaking to her, questioning her.  _ Digging  _ into her personal realm of secrets and mystique. Her spiteful words were the only defence mechanism she had against him.

  
So, after managing a clear face, Ivar calmly continued his interrogation: “aside from my handicaps, I’m still the thing you despise. Yet you’ve cared for me from the start.  _ Before _ Ludolf returned home. You didn’t have to do that, yet you did and remained doing, even after I treated you like dirt.  _ Why _ ?” 

  
Piglet stared him dead in the eyes for a while before crossing her legs in her lap and straightening her back. 

“You have a Djinn inside of you,  _ spirit _ ,” she spoke toneless, “it’s right behind your eyes and it comes out in anger. Djinn will protect you, but feeds on you. You’re cursed Ivar.” 

  
Ivar felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck spike up by her confession and took a moment to let her words sink in. Her confession made sense; it verified the feelings of always being different. A fraud, a changeling. Maybe his brother’s spiteful accusations held a sense of truth.

  
“Two peas in a pod,” Piglet locked eyes, “I have Djin too. It never comes out, hides. Protects me from inside, keeps men away.” She let her eyes roll back and made a spastic neck motion, “My curse, my safe keeper.” 

Although Ivar still had one more question to ask as a rule of their three-question-game, he quietly picked up the knucklebones. Throwing them into the sand he wished he’d asked a different question. 

.-.-.

Piglet’s revelation left Ivar conflicted and troubled. He wished he could simply scoff at her words and label her mad for speaking such foolishness. But the longer he thought about what she explained to him last night, the more sense it made. 

_ Everything _ .

  
His lack of empathy, this unearthly feeling of being dead inside. Maybe that was hitting the nail on the head;  _ death _ , maybe the Djinn was the cause of his explosive nature, his unhealthy satisfaction of seeing other people’s suffering. Maybe there was a thing inside of him that feasted on his heart, soul, of all his emotions. 

  
He’d always been an outcast, not just physically. He did not think like other men. He was different, ruthless and cruel. 

  
But then, how could Piglet be a kindred spirit? Her empathy was overwhelming and much stronger than her hatred towards the Christians. She loved her animals and had a nurturing soul. 

  
They were as different as day and night, inside and out. A dualism, an opposition of each other. Ivar’s rage had always been external and explosive. His relentlessness to survive had proven itself more powerful than the Christian’s death penalty. 

  
Piglet’s force was that of the imploding kind, shaking her to the core and forcing everyone around her to take a few steps back. 

  
They were as different as fire and ice, yet their paths had been intertwined. Maybe long before they physically met. For Piglet had been his savior from day one and the first woman he’d felt generally concerned for, aside from his mother. 

_ It’s right behind your eyes _ , oh how Ivar wished he’d been able to have a glance at his own reflection. He realised he hadn’t been able to take a good look at himself for a very long time. And maybe that was a good thing, because he hadn’t had a proper bath or shave ever since King Egbert’s broken promise. His short hair had grown till the tips of his shoulders, all tangled up and impossible to put a brush through, if he had that luxury. He’d never had a lot of facial hair, but now a scraggly beard had climbed his face like last year's ragged vines after a severe winter. 

  
Ivar feared that he would not recognize his own reflection and, after Piglet’s revelation, maybe not even his own bright blue eyes. 

  
What if he’d see something behind his eyes, what if he’d witness something unearthly staring back at him? 

‘ _ Two peas in a pod, two peas in a pod,  _ Ivar spent his day with gloom, staring across the box while his mental state deteriorated. 

“I’m going mad Piglet”, Ivar confessed when the slave girl placed his meal near his feet. 

  
Piglet hummed aloof and started eating. She was forced to be decent to him, but that didn’t mean Ivar could count on her sympathy. 

  
Which annoyed him dearly, but exploiting her to shed a tear and hold his hand would make him feel feeble and weak. 

  
Ivar decided to take another turn and started talking, just for the mere sound of his mother’s tongue. He spoke of how he was Viking, a fearless, seafaring raider. He left out the part where he threw up the entire content of his stomach due to seasickness and the time he nearly pissed his pants during the storm. 

  
Piglet didn’t buy his grandiloquence bluff but listened to him without any interruptions. Of course, she did not believe the crippled slave of de Haar was being honest. Ivar was aware he didn’t resemble the imposing berserker he was portraying himself to be. 

  
“I once slaughtered a Christian, you know?” Ivar revealed when Piglet rolled her eyes and scoffed at his speech. 

  
“When I was a mere ten winters young,” he continued watching how Piglet stilled and sat back down, “I ripped him apart and used his bones for my tafl game. Maybe once I’m done with the Giant we can use his for our three-question-game, eh?” 

His grotesque statement made Piglet shudder and bite her lip, but then she eyed the chains that kept him locked inside the shed. 

  
“Caged Ivar,” she told him firmly and almost taunting, “crackbrained.” She added with a smile creeping up her face. 

  
Ivar shot forwards, howling when he felt the cuts on his back stretch and was abruptly stopped a few inches in front of Piglet’s face. 

  
“I will burn this castle down until there's nothing more than ashes,” he hissed, bearing his teeth. If he wanted, he could grasp Piglet, send her back to the ground and overpower her for  _ daring _ to look at him so boorish. For a moment his hand twitched, but turned into a fist and slammed itself down into the sand. 

  
“Ivar the martyr, Ivar the bloody,” Piglet belittled, “Ivar full of shit. Ivar slave. Ivar dog with muzzle.” She barked as she flinched back to avoid his fist smashing her nose. 

  
“And what does that make of you then, huh Piglet?”, Ivar shouted. “You’re just a mediocre, foul bitch, with despoiled skin and seizures.”

  
“Still bitch without a leash,” Piglet informed him, mockingly. Her laughter echoed through the shed as she jumped the border of his box to avoid being hit in the face with Ivar’s bowl. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: Well that was almost half a chapter of them not getting into each other’s hair. So close. So the Djinn, I came up with this possibility a while back when I wondered where Piglet’s reselicance to keep Ivar alive comes from. She needed more than just a caring nature. Pity didn’t seem right, so I wanted to give her something inside of Ivar she’d recognize within herself. She’s an outcast, not just for her skin. She has a handicap too. What I liked in Vikings is how Ragnar explained to Ivar that his crippled legs were his strength. I still feel strongly that Ragnar only said this to coach Ivar into taking revenge. But still, a very strong message.  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ So, basically we have two cursed outcasts versus a castle. I always love the underdogs. 

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	25. Tales of enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Till end of winter."

.-.-.

As winter claimed every inch of the shed with it’s frost and cold, the lack of warmth brought the two human inhabitants closer. Although they weren't seeing eye to eye, Piglet had inched closer and closer until Ivar grunted and pulled her close against his freezing body. 

  
“Stop!  _ Stop _ fighting if you don’t want to freeze to death!” Ivar hissed in her ear as he dodged her elbow. Pinning her wrist in front of her body he held her tight until she stopped resisting. She made a sound that could either be a sob or a grunt and managed to fold her legs up, pressing her freezing feet against Ivar’s knees. It felt like two bolts of ice and he flinched. 

  
For the next few minutes both their bodies shook uncontrollably before their shared blankets and body heat reheated them from the bitterness of winter. 

“You  _ stink _ ”, Ivar felt the irresistible need to point out.

  
“You  _ too _ , Ivar”, Piglet spat back through clattering teeth. 

  
Ivar grunted again and pressed her harder against his chest. Her warmth slowly started to move in. He could feel it pass through the fabric of his clothes and wash over his skin, met by the beating of her heart. 

  
“I’m not your enemy, Piglet”, Ivar spoke as he pressed his chin down onto her head, “the Christians are. And if you want to survive you need me”. 

  
“You  _ need me _ ,” Piglet responded resolutely, “I can sleep with cattle, you dog with leash. You  _ die _ .” 

  
“Fine, you won’t die, I will”, Ivar retorted, “but you’d be raped if it weren’t for me. You need me,  _ too _ .”    
  


Her silence was her answer, so Ivar took the liberty to continue: “we need each other in order to survive, yes?” 

  
“Yes,  _ Ivar”,  _ she sneered and Ivar could practically feel her eyes roll. 

  
“Good, so let’s agree to be civil to each other, at least till the end of winter, yes?”, Ivar spoke and squeezed her tight when she took too long to answer. 

  
“Till end of winter”, Piglet responded unenthusiastically.

.-.-.

The days grew grimmer, shorter, and colder. Life started to be a matter of surviving, because as winter endured, the food was lessening. Most of the cattle had been taken from the shed for slaughter. Of course, being in the lowest position of de Haar, their food was meager and mostly the same: a mass of stale vegetables and potatoes. Meat was off the menu and as the richest started to see less variety on their table, it was nearly impossible for Piglet to steal food.    
Their food was lukewarm if not cold, as Piglet had to steep through inches of snow to get back to their shed. 

  
Ivar spent most of the time in the dark or twilight, for it was too cold to keep the door open. Cooped up in layers of blankets and furs, he wondered if this was a taste of Hellheim and pledged to do everything within his power to prevent himself from dying and being sent to that place. Because this was not living, this was simply enduring and wishing his toes and fingers wouldn’t be caught by frostbite. 

  
By the end of day, Piglet would return in forms of ice. Frozen to the core, she’d huddle up fast against him. Necessity knew no laws, and she’d throw herself into his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and chest in order to absorb every bit of warmth he had to offer. 

  
It was too cold for ridicule, silence ruled their twilight, both bearing their own shame: for Piglet, it was craving the closeness of a man. For Ivar, it was being someone’s safety blanket. 

  
At night they’d talk. Both of them. Ivar had been the first one to unveil the names of his Gods. During the dreadful days he had nothing to do aside from simply existing and, subconsciously, he didn’t dare to believe he’d make it through the winter. So, in a sentimental way, he wanted someone in this forsaken country to memorize his Viking legacy. 

  
Piglet’s favorite story was fitting: about the Goddess Nott. Her name means merely ‘Night’, riding her black horse named Hrimfaxi. The dew drips off of Hrimfaxi as he carries his Goddess over the worlds. Nott is the granddaughter of Bergelmir, the first Chief via his son Norfi, the famous giant architect who designed Asgard, Thryheim and the hall of Utgard-Lok. Her first husband of three was a Jotun, named Nagifari, and their son’s name was Aud. By her second husband, Annar, a water-giant, she bore Jord, the mother of Thor. Her third husband, Delling, a red Alfar, gave her the son Daeg, who would be the chosen god of the Day. Nott herself is an ancient goddess, one of the oldest before the flood, which she survived by being in the realm of the Dead. Nott’s known for being a wanderer, a wise old woman. Although she’s somewhat distant from most people’s concern, she can be rather helpful - when she chooses- for those lost in the dark, or in the past. At times, she’ll casually drop a bit of her collected wisdom as she passes realms, like a star falling from her skirt. 

  
In the darkness of night, Piglet had her fair share of stories. One in particular stuck with Ivar. It was about the Prophet Yusuf, who’d been the most favoured child of his father. His brothers had been so jealous of him they’d come up with a plan. Yusuf was thrown inside a well and left to die, and his brother’s lied to their father’s face and claimed Yusuf had been eaten by a wolf. 

  
This led to Yusuf being separated from his beloved father for many years, becoming a slave after being rescued from the well by slave-traders. Through constant patience and remembrance of Allah, the prophet was successful in all of life’s tests and was eventually rewarded for his patience. After years of endurance and hardship, he managed to rise, with his patience, bravery and reliance on Allah.  _ With every adversity, we should try to continuously pick ourselves up and continue along the straight path with sabr; patience _ .

  
Now, patience wasn’t one of Ivar’s virtues. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

And so, Ivar and Piglet withstood the wind cutting through the cracks, the below zero temperatures, and the frost devouring every bit of warmth that wasn’t cocooned underneath blankets and furs. 

  
Oh, how Ivar loathed the endless winter days. 

But eventually the winter months passed, without either of them losing their life or toes. Spring came with a gentle spirit, melting the snow and restoring hope within the heart of all inhabitants of De Haar. Rain instead of snow filled the streets, turning the surroundings of their shed into a murky pool of mud. The first time Piglet entered with grime up to her knees, she laughed in relief. It was a dirty sign of warmth casting the frozen puddles away. 

  
Spring, the end of cold and the beginning of a new, hopeful season. And although it brought joy for most of the inhabitants of de Haar, it welled up doom and sickness inside the stomach of one person in particular. For spring had been her worst enemy, a countdown to one horrific burden she’d never overcome. 

  
Spring would bring a wedding. 

.-.-.

There was something off in Piglet’s bearing. Sorrow flashed underneath the surface of her eyes, her shoulders stiffening all the way up to her chin. She hid it well with a smile and an occasional crude remark. 

  
Something was off, Piglet's mental retreatment brought her back to four words per sentence and she ignored Ivar when he tried to make small talk. 

  
When the Giant appeared inside the shed, Ivar knew troubles lay ahead. The man’s stone cold eyes bore themselves into Ivar’s. The Giant’s expression was one of absolute disdain and  abhorrence . To him, those two slaves were less than the mud on his leather boots. 

  
The Giant plunked down two buckets filled with a steamy content at the doorstep and threw a bag into Piglet’s hands, all while spitting an order. The young woman clumsily caught the bag and nodded her head in response. 

  
“Ivar, wash”, Piglet ordered and dunked the content of the first bucket in his trough. Hurried, she took the second bucket and retreated to her own box. 

  
One of Ivar’s eyebrows rose all the way up and disappeared underneath his matted hair. If slaves would have been ordered to cleanse themselves back in Kattegat, that only meant one thing; a human sacrifice. But in this land of inept rulers, Christians and God fearing people, Ivar guessed such heathen rituals would be condemned rather than celebrated. 

  
Until further notice, Ivar counted this as a blessing in disguise and slid his arms down into the hot water. Wishing the trough to expand so he could sink into it completely, he gasped and closed his eyes. The dullness of cold finally left the tips of his fingers and before the water could cool off, he dunked his head into the trough. The hot water blocked out all the sounds surrounding him. Ivar sat like that until his back ached and his lungs were on the verge of exploding. 

Splashing he withdrew, mouth open like a fish on dry land. And he laughed, a small stream of water ran down his neck all the way down his lower back. Without a moment to waste, Ivar shoved his tunic off and started scraping his skin raw with a cloth. 

  
Soon, the color of the water became murky brown as it cooled. It didn’t stop Ivar’s hasty cleansing ritual; his face, his arms, his legs, chest and lower body were all rid of the layers of filth that hadn’t been cleaned since autumn. The only part of his body he’d taken careful notice of was his backside; dabbing the cloth instead of scrubbing inch for inch. 

  
Goosebumps appeared on his flesh long before Ivar felt clean enough to stop bathing. 

  
“Ivar!” Piglet’s head appeared above their wooden border and Ivar’s mouth dropped in surprise.

  
“By the Gods Piglet, you have hair!” he exclaimed in awe, staring at the unruly mess of ebony hair curling down Piglet’s shoulders. 

  
Piglet had been about to throw him the content of the Giant’s bag but she stopped mid-way of throwing. She hunched down until only the bag was showing above the box and she swung the bag towards Ivar. 

  
“Change”, was all she snapped, hand gesturing towards the bag. 

  
Now, over the course of months, Piglet had seen pretty much every inch of Ivar, up close. Every embarrassing little detail of his body. But vice versa? No, Piglet had mastered the skill of being mysterious and being an appalling pig. She never bathed, never freshened herself up, and may the Gods strike him down if he’d been lying, Ivar had never seen an inch of her skin above her ankles. Sure, during those long dreadfully cold nights he’d been able to map out her body and physique. He had a good clue of how her true proportions were underneath those rags and tatters. 

  
Yet the question still remained, did Piglet possess a cow tail and a bark covered back? 

  
Pulling his naked lower half along, Ivar crawled in a straight line to their wooden border and peeked through the cracks between the planks. Piglet met his gaze with the passion of a thousand suns, her dark eyes smoldering from his utter lack of shame. She’d draped herself with the closest blanket in reach and cursed at him in her mother’s tongue.

“GO AWAY!”, she shouted at him when Ivar’s eyes trailed over every inch of exposed skin. Which wasn’t a lot; a shoulder, two balled fists and two stomping feet. Yet, this was rather entertaining and a perfect payback for all the times she’d been secretly ogling him. 

  
“What’s your aversion towards nudism Piglet?” Ivar mocked, “does your cunt have fangs, is that it?”

  
To her dread, Ivar pulled himself up on his feet and swung his arms over their wooden border. Although Piglet had always been keen to inform him that her religion forbid her to harm or murder a human being, her eyes at this point told a completely different story. 

  
Ivar let out a loud harsh cackle of laughter, shaking his head to Piglet’s disheveled appearance. 

  
“Go. Away.”, she repeated again, hissing through her teeth, cloaking her bare shoulder rapidly underneath the woolen fabric. 

  
“Not so mysterious now, huh little Piglet?” Ivar soothed and ruffled his hand coarsely through her thick curling hair, “you truly are something savage, aren’t you?” 

  
She yanked her head away from his touch, nearly losing her balance, causing her to be laughed at by Ivar again. 

  
Snickering, Ivar allowed himself to drop down on his knees and he retreated to the bag Piglet had swung at him. The content turned out to be a new tunic and pants. At least three sizes too big and clearly one of the servant's hand-me-downs, but Ivar was not going to complain about it. He tucked a rope around his waist to secure his new clothes and tied two layers of potato bags around his knees for protection. 

  
Piglet, too, was draped in less raggedy attire. Her long sleeved dress was frayed at the cuffs, but the steel colored fabric was clean. She still chose to wear her bandana, hiding away every inch of her long hair. 

  
“Oh look, it’s princess puritan,” Ivar sneered watching how the muscles of her jaw tightened, “ah poor Piglet, are you giving me silent treatment, all because I risked a peek at your tits?”. 

  
“You disgust me”, Piglet announced bitterly, clapping her hands on her hips, “no respect!”. 

  
“Oh please, Piglet”, Ivar brushed her accusations off with a wave of his hand, “don’t act as if you never peeked at my prick with those ogling black eyes of yours.” 

  
He knew he was playing with fire. During the endless cold nights Piglet had revealed much of her religion to him. He was aware of how ‘longing for the flesh’ was forbidden,  _ haram _ . As a proud Hijabi, a woman who veiled her hair, Piglet eagerly spread the words of her God, Allah, explaining that covering her hair was a sign of modesty, faith, and protection against evil things in the surrounding world. 

  
In other words,  _ men _ . 

So yes, Ivar was playing with fire, but he’d never been scared to get his hands burned. Besides, antagonizing Piglet was one of the few things he could do to pass time. 

  
But their bickering was abruptly stopped by the Giant. Ivar couldn’t recall a moment the bastard didn’t manage to suck all life out of the room. But spring managed to produce miracles, because as the brute strode into the shed, Ivar’s heart skipped a beat in joy. 

  
The Giant was holding up keys. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: all hail for teamwork, they managed to survive winter without killing each other or losing a toe. I wanted to add some details about both of their religions, it’s my personal interpretation of all the information I found on the big world wide web. So, mistakes could be made, I mean no disrespect.  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ So the pair is clean (thank God, I could practically smell them here!) and dressed up, gosh what could possibly be next…

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster _


	26. Burdens women bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although her path was paved with golden stones, they both shared the same form of dread; being absolutely powerless. Voiceless, nothing more than a piece of meat, auctioned off to the highest bidder.

.-.-.

It wasn’t their holy day, it wasn’t Sunday. The bells gave that away. As the Giant dragged Ivar across the cobblestoned centre towards the chapel, the bells rang in a peal, echoing their melodic sounds through the castle de Haar. 

  
The chapel was already packed with the inhabitants, but instead of calm gracing through their most holy chamber, the room was buzzing with excited chatter. Children ran between rows, fighting each other for the closest spots near the altar underneath the high arched windows. 

  
Was it a special holy day? A possible celebration of spring? 

  
Ivar sat up and stared across the pompous room. Honestly he didn’t care what reason lay behind his smatter of freedom. It felt thrilling yet intimidating to be out of the shed and placed back into society. To be sitting on a wooden bench instead of laying in filth and hay. Ivar looked around so quickly his eyes nearly fell out; stained glass, the heavy iron bound door, elegant candle holders. The smell of wax and incense. The sounds of foreign chatter, contained coughs, giggling of children, and footsteps echoing between the old stonewalls; it was an overstimulation of Ivar’s dulled brain. The months of utter cold and nothingness, rocking back and forth to keep himself warm in either twilight or dark, had taken its toll on him. 

  
He did not realise he was physically cramping up and holding his breath until Piglet’s warm and calloused hand formed itself around his. 

  
Ivar glanced at her hand, with nails bitten and ripped, raw and so small compared to his. She gave him a gentle squeeze and an even softer smile as his eyes trailed back up to read her face. 

  
“Breath, hamar”, she told him as if she were talking to a small, dumb child. And in that moment Ivar felt like a small dumb child, inhaling a sharp deep breath as his body seemed to have forgotten to do that automatically. 

  
The bells kept ringing, those insufferable Christian words kept swirling around him like flies. It all came crashing in like waves in the ocean; the voices, sounds, smells and bile rose in his throat. For a moment, Ivar feared he’d be drowning on land, like a fish. 

  
To lessen the external rollercoaster he closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths again, blowing out slowly. In order to keep the suffocating thoughts from spiraling out of control he chose a steady anchor to hold onto and held onto the hand of Piglet. Intertwining fingers, he knew his clutch around hers was hurting her. But he could not bring himself to ease his grip, not yet. 

  
For a solid moment alone, Ivar missed being locked inside the shed. The unsettling boredom, the shackles and chains. The smell of animal dung, mildew, and wet furs. That place was constant, dull, dark and safe. In there he’d been the Bloody Bear of Kattegat, for months, rocking back and forth to keep his mind from breaking and his body from freezing. 

  
It was impossible to shake that mental state off in a matter of minutes. So Ivar quietly rocked back and forth on the wooden bench, eyes firmly shut close and focussing on merely keeping his body from suffocating. 

  
“ _ Hamar, _ breath”, Piglet murmured in his ear, her words tickling his skin, “you’re Viking, think of your Gods.” 

Ivar pressed his forehead against the backside of the wooden bench in front of him and while keeping his eyes shut whispered... “hail All-Father, wise warrior, one-eyed wanderer, come sit at my fire. Tell me your wisdom stories, the scenes your missing eyes sees. You who chooses the slain, look on my deed and when my time comes, to run the sky with you. Let me end be worthy of song. In the meantime, let me feel excitement and poetry and fury and joy. Let me understand sacrifice. Think long, remember well and journey far. Odin, witness this”.

  
Suddenly, a hush fell over the room and Ivar reopened his eyes wide, shocked by the sudden lack of sounds and voices. Before he had time to recover from the first surprise he was struck with the next: the presence of the fair-maiden. The young woman stood in the doorway of the heavy iron door, arms hooked with a wealthy man Ivar hadn’t seen before. 

  
She was draped from head to toe in deep jewel tones, made of velvet, silk and satin. Although the poor thing did her absolute best to keep her face blank from emotion, she had the gait of someone who was about to walk into her own funeral. Every step seemed to take her forever as if she wished to master time and take an eternity to end her walk up to the altar. 

As the fair-maiden started her slow pace, everyone around Ivar rose up to their feet, even Piglet sheepishly participated, urgently tugging on Ivar’s hand to at least try to get up too.    
Ivar abruptly let go of her hand, grabbed the edge of the wooden bench in front of him and pulled himself upon his feet. Unsteady, he leaned heavily on the bench, his legs trembling and spasming underneath him. 

  
But by the Gods, he was going to keep on standing. And it was not because he obeyed the Christians. He desperately wanted to see the fair-maiden as long as he could and remaining seated meant all he could see were backs, elbows, and arses. 

  
The fair-maiden walked right by him and instinctively Ivar moved towards her, only to be spitefully elbowed between the ribs by Piglet, who did not condone any foolishness from his behalf. 

  
For a second time that day Ivar found himself breathless. Barely able to keep himself up on his feet, he gazed at Piglet in utter anger. Unfazed, she glared back at him, motioning her elbow slightly up to warn him she’d do it again if he dare do anything so drastic and stupid. 

  
Oh, at times Ivar wished he had enough nails to nail the Giant  _ and _ Piglet both. 

  
“Insufferable cunt”, Ivar breathed in her ear as he was forced to stare at the back of the fair-maiden. 

  
“Thick-head”, she responded with a whisper as all heads turned to the next entry. 

It was Ludolf, wearing a masculine version of the fair-maiden’s look; a three-quarter length tunic with wide sleeves and an open, round neckline. His lop-sided lip was formed into a satisfied smile as he bathed in all the attention. 

  
Piglet had her elbow already pinned into Ivar’s chest as a warning, while the young man strode along them. A good thing though, because the scars on Ivar’s back seemed to be set on fire the moment he lay eyes on the spineless creature that caused them. Whatever truth may lay in Piglet’s confession about his Djinn, Ivar could feel something inside of him rob his consciousness from his heart, stopping the natural process of guilt and shame and stirring on mere hatred alone. Whatever lurked inside of him, there was a part that fueled on wrath and rage alone. A hunger for destruction of flesh, bones and civilisation. 

  
“This is not the time”, Piglet expressed breathlessly, summoning back some awareness of their poor status and certain death, if Ivar dared to lunge forward. 

  
Calculated, Ivar realised he would not be able to make it to Ludolf, he wouldn’t even be able to yap at his ankles as he’d done last time. And Ivar did not need to remind himself what had happened to him after he’d marked the young ruler with his teeth. 

  
Lowering his head in defeat, Ivar listened as their priest opened his holy book and started speaking. 

  
A wedding ceremony… Ivar thoughtlessly shook his head, they’d all been prepped up to witness a marriage of convenience. A faithless arrangement between the father of the bride and the father of the groom. Devotion not by heart, but by responsibility and honour. The fair-maiden would be burdened to endure Ludolf until death, barring his children and turning the other cheek. Ivar didn’t understand why he dwelled on that prospect of her future. He’d known for a long time about the arranged marriage. 

  
But he never thought he’d be witness to her ceremonial doom. Although her path was paved with golden stones, they both shared the same form of dread; being absolutely powerless. Voiceless, nothing more than a piece of meat, auctioned off to the highest bidder. 

  
After a short welcome, all spectators were informed to sit down. The biblical nonsense took on forever, but the lack of voices and chattering was more than welcome and gave Ivar the time to unwind. 

He watched the fair-maiden from between shoulders and heads. Her emotions were not easily hidden on her innocent face. Her pain was so evident in the crease of her brow and the down-curve of her full lips. Her petite frame seemed so easy to break, shatter at the altar as the burden upon her shoulders became too much for her to carry. 

  
She was so different from Ivar, so fragile and innocent, although that part of her would soon be demolished. Ivar figured it would die during her wedding night, as the young ruler would claim what was rightfully his. 

  
“She won’t last long”, Piglet whispered bitterly. Yet her venom was not directed toward the fair-maiden, but to the despicable creature that was about to marry her. 

  
Ivar failed to respond and watched the exchange of rings. Her hands trembled as Ludolf slid the piece of gold around her finger. A wealthy form of chains and shackles, a symbol of the power he was about to hold over her. His wife. 

  
The audience was asked to stand, and Ivar did so as quickly as he could. Just in time to see them kiss. It was quick and lacked any sign of affection, but it was enough to simmer up Ivar’s anger. 

  
The tension that came with that anger was enough to send his right leg into a spasm, causing him to stumble and collapse onto the marble floor. Piglet and the rest of the people in his row glared at his clumsiness, while the rest of the room broke down in celebration. 

  
Clapping, excited chatter and cheers filled the air and everyone was drawn to the newlyweds. 

  
Now that he was down, Ivar figured he had nothing to lose. And so he crawled past filthy feet and dirty boots to peek around the rows of benches and stare at the fair-maiden from a different angle. 

  
The pair were still standing at the altar, holding their intertwined hands into the air to receive all of the applause and best wishes. The fair-maiden had managed to turn her lips into a smile and cautiously glanced at the rows of people. Strangers.

  
The pair started walking, Ludolf waved at his lessers and the fair-maiden followed him aside, her arm hooked with his and her gaze gracefully lowered to the tips of her toes. That was her future from this day, to obey and keep herself as small as possible. For in this world there was no place for women that spoke their minds with sharp tongues. 

  
As by faith, the fair-maiden suddenly glanced up and noticed Ivar down on the floor. Keeping himself up on his elbows staring could be their only form of communication. 

  
It was so evident that she needed something,  _ anything _ , to hold onto during the darkest hour of her life. A sign that her future might not be painted so grim, the pain so legible in her begging, downturned gaze. 

  
Ivar drew a little cross on his forehead with his index finger and gave her a gentle nod to convince her to keep her faith. He could feel his own lips burn as the fair-maiden wetted hers and managed to lift them into a halfhearted smile. 

  
The pair passed Ivar, heading towards what would probably be the biggest celebratory meal of the year. Ivar watched the back of their heads, touching his upper lip while all exited, chattering turned into a buzz. 

  
Piglet stomped her cold toes harshly into his ribs and gave him a shove to start moving. Oh, if it wasn’t for the major amount of witnesses she’d be having a fit right now. But aside from a few more kicks she could not afford to lash out and quietly walked behind Ivar, who was boiling like a pot of tar, ready to overflow. 

  
The Giant split them apart. Ivar made a mental note to have the brute crawl through thorn bushes set on fire before slaughtering the man, as he was being dragged over the cobblestones. If it weren’t for the potato bags, Ivar’s knees would be bruised and scraped back open.

  
A second miracle appeared today. Instead of being locked back up into the shed, Ivar was being dragged into the Castle’s kitchen. He highly doubted it was due to the Giant’s change of heart, no, the reason for this smatter of freedom was pragmatic; there was a feast coming up and the kitchen needed a few more hands.

  
So, Ivar was back at peeling and cutting onions, all while crying his eyes out. But it beat the absolute loneliness and boredom of the shed. It was a nice change of atmosphere; the chaos, heat, and mouth watering smells of brisket, soups, and baked potatoes. Little Cunt ruled her kitchen like a warrior, beating her cane against every head thick enough to make a mistake. The workers literally risked their heads and a possible concussion around the pots, pans, knives, and silver pitchers. 

  
Big Cunt was in charge of the service, every tray would be checked with her prying eyes. Every slip of greasy gravy, wine stained napkin or overcooked slice of meat would be punished with a foul snarl and a slap in the face. Tonight was the feast of the rich, there was no room for mistakes.

  
Ivar watched the chaotic beehive led by two queens patiently while squinting his eyes. The scent was poison to his eyes, blurring his vision and turning him into a snottering, sniveling mess. 

  
Piglet’s humble form emerged from the crowd, painfully rubbing the side of her head, an indication that Little Cunt wasn’t pleased with her efforts. Appearing a little lost, her eyes regained a humored glint when she noticed Ivar’s struggle with the mass of torturous vegetables. 

  
“Welcome back”, Piglet sniggered, collecting the cut onions in a large bowl. 

  
Ivar refused to respond, wiping vigorously through his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of tears. Once he blinked the blurriness from his vision, Piglet had vanished back into the mass, leaving him to his simpleton duty. 

.-.-.

It must have been well over midnight when the kitchen staff turned from serving to cleaning. Piglet and Ivar were in charge of the counters, which wasn’t in Ivar’s best interest; standing required him to use the support of both his arms. And since he could not magically grow a third arm, he had to balance his support with one arm and two very unwilling legs, all while productively scrubbing away grease. 

  
The task already took him down two times; the first time resulted in him banging his chin down onto the counter. The second time, he landed hard on his arse as Little Cunt grew tired of his clumsiness and unproductivity. The old hag wacked her cane mercilessly against Ivar’s chinbones.

  
He had to give it to her, for such an ancient bitch with a crooked back and arthritis, she had the fury and force of a proper shieldmaiden. 

  
This, however, did not change the fact that Little Cunt was now the third person on Ivar’s hitlist. He’d butcher her like a pig, using her own set of cherished kitchen knives. And then cook her up in the largest cauldron to serve her to the fat rulers of de Haar.

  
Ivar envisioned how the flesh would slowly loosen from her brittle bones, oh he’d use her own cane to stir her body around until she’d turned into a decent stew. Maybe ask Piglet to piss in it, too. 

  
As if the slave could read his mind, Piglet dropped the entire content of one of the serving trays. A fortune of silverware crashed down onto the floor, while red wine splattered the cabinets. 

  
It looked like a murder scene, and Little Cunt was about to commit the crime. The old woman let out a bloody warcry and chased after Piglet with her cane waving around like a flag. 

  
It was entertaining to watch Piglet wear the Little Cunt down, because the older woman was no match for the speed and swiftness of Piglet. Little Cunt eventually settled with beating the life out of the closest person in reach before letting out a shaky breath and faint from lack of air and probably old age. 

  
Big Cunt was on a rescue mission to save the dignity of her commander and unleashed her fury onto Piglet. It was a one-sided engagement of scratching, punching, and hair pulling which ended with Piglet on her knees, her face pressed into the mess she’d made. 

  
Of course there was laughter and ridicule, but it quickly evolved into concern about the well-being of Little Cunt. 

  
As most of the kitchen staff circled around their hated leader, while Big Cunt cried bloody murder, Ivar crawled out to Piglet to help her pick up the piece of silverware.

  
Three red gashes marked her face, a gift from Big Cunt, but Piglet’s face was lit with stubborn satisfaction. 

  
“You might have slayed the old dragon Piglet”, Ivar muttered as two members of the kitchen staff hoisted Little Cunt up onto her feet to drag her away. The old woman spat out some feisty mumbling, but lost the strength to bash heads in. 

  
“Did you plan this?”, Ivar continued.

  
Piglet glanced at him through her lashes and carefully touched one of the three fingernail scratches on her cheek. 

  
“Ivar the bloody, Ivar de Martelaar, Ivar the dog with muzzle,” she summoned up mockingly, “you have enough nicknames, no room for another; Ivar-bashed-up-knees”. Piglet pointed at the red wine stained floor and cabinet. “You clean that, I clean counter, you’re useless standing.” 

And so Ivar was given the task to clean up after Piglet until the early hours of morning. But with both his crippled legs intact. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: Yeah #teampiglet all the way. Ivar’s savage guardian angel. So this chapter was another interesting one to write. I felt the need to highlight the mental damage winter left behind. I just couldn’t let the fact slide that Ivar has been locked up for months, while fighting bitter cold, in twilight or dark, spending endless hours all alone. So yeah, to then be alright and function while being dragged into a overcrowded place...nop, that felt wrong.  _

_ So I guess you could say he had a mild panic attack right before the ceremony. And then to watch the fair-maiden being married off to Ludolf, oh what a monstrosity I am as the writer.  _

_ Also, I did a little bit of research about the wedding ceremony. During this era the wedding dress wasn’t white but blue, so there you go.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ This time Piglet took one for the team, I’m happy to end with a little humor for a change. I like how she’s able to get what she wants while being the weakest link in the room. Ivar and Piglet, two peas in a pod.  _ _   
  
_

_ This was it for this week again, hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter and it would be lovely if you’ve let me know what your thoughts are.  _

  
  


_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	27. Raven named Utstøtt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar could no longer pinpoint who he was. He had been a lot of things; a prince, a despised brother, a cherished son. A disgrace. 
> 
> He’d become a lot of things, too; a slave, a savior, de martelaar, the bloody bear of Kattegat, a cursed one. 
> 
> And he was and always would be a cripple, nature’s mistake. Possibly a changeling and the reason for his father’s absence.

.-.-.

He should be exhausted, but Ivar was wide awake, back in shackles and frustrated. Worrisome thoughts ate their way into his subconscious like maggots feasting on rotting flesh. Everytime he closed his eyes, images appeared; of his mother waving her last goodbye, his one-eyed father being eaten by a flock of ravens, and of the fair-maiden, walking past him into her dread filled future. Even Piglet’s dark eyes and temper came into view.

  
Ivar could no longer pinpoint who he was. He had been a lot of things; a prince, a despised brother, a cherished son. A disgrace. 

  
He’d become a lot of things, too; a slave, a savior, de martelaar, the bloody bear of Kattegat, a cursed one. 

  
And he was and always would be a cripple, nature’s mistake. Possibly a changeling and the reason for his father’s absence. 

  
He held so many titles. Too many, and he no longer knew which one to hold onto and which one to throw away forever. What use was it to ponder over his royal blood, as it had been spilled countless times by his masters? 

  
But to embrace the title of a slave? Never. The Giant could flog him over forty times, break his useless legs and spit on his grave, but he’d never fully bow to the rulers of De Haar. 

  
Another toss and turn, another long sigh of frustration, and Ivar crawled on his side to stare in envy at his sleeping companion. 

  
Although spring had kindly rid the shed of cold, after twilight, Piglet still turned into his shadow. No longer would she cling onto his body for heat, but she’d sleep at his side. 

  
It no longer bothered him, not even that high pitch weeze she’d make as she’d fall deeply asleep. Or how her stone cold feet always managed to find their way up against his knees.

  
There was a level of trust from her behalf and it was an odd and unfamiliar sensation to receive such a gift from someone else. It was a fragile treasure, one he’d broken countless times. Yet the shards and shatters always magically seemed to restore, as he’d proven his loyalty to the slave maiden. 

  
There was this strange balance between them, one that at times made him push her away and yet drew him closer and closer. 

  
“Why?”, he whispered to the sleeping form of Piglet, “why do I bother to care for you? You are just a soil skinned slave”. 

  
His words were meant to sound harsh and insulting, but they came out so hopeless and quiet. 

.-.-.

Ivar had been very wrong about one thing. He most definitely hadn’t missed cleaning chamber pots. Retching, his back arched against the stone well as the stench of human waste mercilessly filled his nostrils. 

  
What should be a miracle actually felt like a punishment; at dawn the Giant had released him from his chains, hoisted Ivar on his shoulders, and tossed him into the midst of the cobblestoned centre. 

  
He’d been freed and turned into the laugh of the town, as he’d suffered his way through the chamber pots. The stench already sank into his skin and Ivar was fully aware that the Giant unleashed him only to torture him. Yesterday, he’d been able to cleanse his body for the first time in months, and now he stank even worse than before. 

  
Even Piglet, queen of poor personal hygiene, scrunched up her nose as she rapidly dumped his breakfast at his feet. 

  
Ivar did not blame her and, frustrated, he whipped at the flies circling around his head. 

  
After fulfilling his duty, the Giant picked him up again and carried him over to the entrance of the castle. Dropping him to the floor like a sack of shit, he handed Ivar a bucket and a cloth, indicating that he’d better start scrubbing. 

  
This task was less revolting and allowed Ivar to embrace the meager glimpse of daylight. Although his stiff muscles and knees ached, he counted this moment as a humble blessing. To be outside, breathe in  _ fresh air _ , and be able to observe the residence of de Haar. Small children playing silly games around the well, carts bringing in new livestock, the linen maidens handing out loads of fresh laundry. A peaceful scenery, a delight for the eye. 

  
But that wasn’t what filled Ivar’s heart with content. Now that he was deployed to another part of the Castle, he was able to observe far more interesting aspects; the specific amount of guards  _ and _ their route. Without drawing any attention, he was able to glance at their weaponry. From the main entrance, it was easy to view the main gate and how it was being watched by two guards.  _ Two _ , it took two full grown men to open the gate. Now that was a very important discovery, as this meant Ivar wouldn’t be able to escape during nighttime, when the gate would be closed. 

‘Unless I grow wings’, Ivar thought to himself as he enviously glanced up at the circle of ravens flying high in the air. 

  
Ivar pulled himself onto the fifth step of the stone stairway when his ears perked at the sound of distressed squeaking. 

  
A hatchling lay in the middle of the main entrance, ready to be stomped to death. A little puzzled about the baby bird's previous whereabouts, Ivar crawled closer to inspect the tiny little thing. 

  
It looked hideous, mostly bald with tufts of light feathers. The baby bird was defenseless and incapable of fleeing as the limp wings lacked strength and feathers, it’s eyes hadn’t even opened up yet. 

Ivar glanced up again, scanning the rooftops and walls until his eyes rested on a raven’s nest submerged in between roof tiles. Two ravens flew on and off to provide food for their offspring. Neither of the parents seemed aware or bothered by the unfortunate youngest who’d taken a massive tumble down. 

  
The heavy footsteps of the Giant marched close and without any hesitation Ivar picked up the bundle of cold naked flesh and stored it inside the pocket Piglet sewed in to smuggle food.

Meaty fingers raked through Ivar’s hair and yanked him up onto his knees with a pained hiss. The Giant was not pleased with his slave taking a break. With force, Ivar received the cloth back in his hand while his face was shoved into the dirty water of the bucket. Reliving vividly how he’d nearly drowned inside the well, Ivar squirmed, gasped and whittered. 

  
The threat of drowning was short but powerful and the moment his lungs were allowed to fill themselves back up with air, Ivar’s hand turned into fist and dutifully began scrubbing the entrance of De Haar. 

.-.-.

Piglet was in a state of pure bliss with so many new animals inside the shed. Sheep with lambs, a flock of chickens, and six young calves were stored inside, all with hungry mouths to feed. 

  
“You’re working yourself to death for those stupid animals”, Ivar felt the need to tell her.

  
Of course, his statement fell on deaf ears and Piglet happily slaved herself through countless troughs of fresh water, bales of hay, and handfuls of grain. She then still remained strong enough to fill up Ivar’s trough and announced he stank. Which he did, there was no denying that. 

  
“Use this”, Piglet said as she handed him a black lump of lard, motioning by scrubbing her own arm and face, “it helps”. Ivar recognised the structure of the lump; it came close to the herbal soaps their elderly made in Kattegat. It was a time consuming process, not to mention very delicate work. 

  
Ivar pulled the tunic over his head and scrubbed the greasy lump over his smelling skin and washed himself. As he rid himself from the stench of human waste, Piglet came back with supper. 

  
“Piglet, you know a lot about herbs and ointments”, Ivar stated, referring not only to the soap, but also to the professional way she’d tended his wounds. “How do you know all of this?” 

  
Piglet paused, shoving a handful of potato into her mouth and chewed slowly, buying herself some time, because by the Gods, his question meant revealing something about herself.

  
“Before you, there was another cripple, but not her legs. No-”, Piglet tapped her index finger against her temple a couple of times, “in here. She meant no harm, but she talked. All the time, never shut up”, Piglet gestured towards the stairs, “I slept up there, called her Rattle-mouth. Her real name was Mabelia, not that anyone cared. She taught me about plants, herbs, soap, how to disgust men, keep them away. She was my friend”, Piglet added, sincerely. 

  
“ _ Was _ ?” Ivar noticed how she’d spoken in the past tenses. 

  
“The Toothless burned her alive”, Piglet whispered bitterly, “everyone knew about her special gifts. She knew things. She  _ helped _ people, she cured sickness, wounds, colds. Never asked for anything in return. She  _ saved  _ lives, until she couldn’t. And the Toothless blamed her for that”.

  
“Who died, Piglet?” Ivar asked, “who’s the one she couldn’t save?”

  
Piglet stared at him but seemed to look right through to him: “his son, born in breach, never able to draw his first breath.” 

  
The Giant lost his son. Oddly enough, that made the man seem less untouchable and more human. 

  
“She was accused of witchcraft. Toothless stated she purposely murdered his son for her Lord, the devil. She burned the same day his son was buried. Mabelia Rattle-mouth at the stake with her tongue cut out, all because she failed to save his son.” 

  
“Yet you survived”, Ivar stated sharply, “you were her friend. A witch’s  _ friend _ .”

  
“I spoke lies, that she bewitched me, that she talked to the Devil night after night. I caused her to burn, saved my own skin.” Piglet told her story pragmatically but the guilt that crushed her was unmistakable. It took over her whole being, she seemed to shrink and cower away. 

  
Ivar wanted to lash out at her, because that had been a gutless act on her behalf. Although it wasn’t his betrayal, her confession felt like a stab in the back. For he’d taken a flogging for Piglet, one that nearly caused him his life and left him scarred forever. He’d never expected her to return the favour, but to hear her say she’d sold out a friend, yes, that put her in a completely different light. 

  
Yet, all the poor young woman had done was simply survive. No doubt, Mabelia would have burned without Piglet’s lies, for failing the Giant’s son.

  
A muffled squeak eventually broke the silence between Ivar and Piglet. Ivar had completely forgotten about the baby bird hiding in the safety of his tunic. During the day he’d been so focused on his tasks, the small animal warming up due to his body heat, becoming a small bundle of warmth, skin and a heartbeat. 

  
Ivar picked up his tunic and scooped the bird up. In his large hand the bird seemed even smaller and so fragile.

  
“You’ve saved a bird? Why?” Piglet asked curiously, as Ivar never before showed much care to any of the animals aside from the pigs. And that care had only been there because it had been his task. 

  
Ivar shrugged, still unable to answer that question for himself.

  
Piglet leaned in for a closer look. “Does it have a name?”

  
“ _ He _ ,” Ivar snapped, “it’s a  _ he _ and he does have a name:  Utstøtt.” 

  
Piglet’s brows furrowed as she hadn’t learned that word yet, “what does that mean?”

  
Ivar’s fingers petted the small beak of the bird, “Outcast.” 

.-.-.

Over the course of days, Utstøtt’s feathers started to flourish and his eyes opened. That was how Ivar understood his subconscious reasoning for saving the young bird. Instead of growing ink black feathers as all ravens do, Utstøtt’s feathers were white as snow. Another abnormal feature was Utstøtt’s eyes. His right was milky and pupil-less, while his left eye was icy blue. 

Had Utstøtt’s fall from the nest been an accident? Or had the parents deliberately pushed their offspring from the nest? In the animal world there was no place for abnormalities, nature could be cruel, allowing the parents to either eat or kill their young.

  
Or abandon them in the woods, to let the wolves do the dirty work for them. 

  
Neither Ivar nor Utstøtt should be alive, because they didn’t stand a change in this cruel world. They both had all odds against them, but Ivar knew from experience that sometimes the damaged ones can rise. 

  
So, he did his best to keep Utstøtt hidden inside his tunic. Collected worms during his tasks outside and chewed the boneless, wiggling things up to feed his pet raven. 

  
Piglet was appalled by the way he fed the bird, yet touched by his will to care for Utstøtt. She brought him scraps of beef and chicken so he no longer had to chew on worms. 

  
Utstøtt turned out to be a smart bird, oddly aware of when he needed to remain quiet and still inside Ivar’s tunic. While at other times, he’d poke at Ivar’s chest and caw, indicating that he was hungry. With his good eye, he’d stare up at Ivar accusingly if he took too long. 

  
And so, another chapter started in Ivar’s life, that of being a foster of a white, one-eyed raven named Utstøtt. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: So, for this chapter I had about 6 tabs open about ‘ravens’, and then 3 more about ‘how did they make soap before soap?’ This chapter felt a bit all over the place, but I didn’t feel like cutting it up in pieces and adding extra ‘space’ purely to make it more organized. Basically I didn’t want to bore myself and I needed to get a lot of thoughts/information/background and Utstøtt into the story.  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ So yes, most of all happy with the chapter. Hope you enjoyed it too:)

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	28. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She must have seen that thing in his eyes; what his mother called rage and she called the Djinn.

.-.-.

Utstott grew rapidly. For the first few days, Ivar managed to hide the raven chick inside the pocket of his tunic. But now that the hatchling received proper food and care, the little thing grew in size and had a massive opinion; it no longer allowed Ivar to shove him into his pocket. It pecked and cawed every time Ivar’s fingers brushed over the hem of his tunic, puffing up his humble amount of feathers. 

  
“ _ Fine _ , be stomped to death, scrawny excuse for a chicken!”, Ivar badmouthed Utstott, who’d fiercely dug his beak into Ivar’s thumb. The little shit managed to draw blood and received an aggravated wave from Ivar. Utstott tumbled down onto his tiny arse and cawed disapprovingly.

  
Ivar threw a meaningful glance at Piglet, who failed miserably at keeping her snigger hidden. 

  
The Giant had unchained Ivar shortly before, and Ivar had barely managed to hide the hatchling underneath a pile of hay, coughing excessively loud to mask the sound of Utstott’s caws of disapproval. 

  
It had earned Ivar two iron fists smashing in between his shoulder blades, along with a shove towards the door; the Giant didn’t want him slacking. 

  
“You take care of that pain in the ass”, Ivar half ordered, half asked Piglet. The slave maiden made a deep bow as an answer and used her broom to sweep Utstott to the furthest corner of the shed. 

  
“Make sure the calves don’t crush him”, Ivar added before crawling out of the doorway. 

  
His duty still remained the same, scrubbing the staircase. It was the most pointless and exhausting task possible; for every step he mopped, a hundred dirty feet and muddy boots defiled it before the end of the day.

  
But, like the bloody bear of Kattegat, Ivar would scrape his palms raw and routinely work his way up to the steps of the entrance. 

  
Then again, he was out in the sun, catching a breath of fresh air, and he’d managed to collect a small log he could use for carving later. Life could be much worse; yet it bothered him how grateful he’d become for such basic aspects in life. He used to literally eat from a golden bowl and now his day was considered an excellent one if meat was on the menu. After winter, his heart truly beat faster every time the Giant would unshackle him and  _ allowed _ him to slave his way through degrading and pointless tasks. 

  
He’d evolved into a proper dog,  _ Ivar dog with muzzle _ , as Piglet put it. 

  
How much time had passed since his arrival in de Haar? Since his father promised him greatness and a meaningful death? Of course he’d known he’d never return from England, he’d settled with drowning at sea. At least he’d be right beside a Legend, a King, a father. 

  
Oh, sweet bliss, if only he’d died during that storm. Then he’d never know how Ragnar Lothbrok’s suicide mission only included him for his unfailing and inescapable affliction; being born a cripple. He’d just been a tool, a simple pawn to deliver a message to his  _ worthy  _ brothers. 

  
And he even failed at that. At night, that was one of the thoughts that kept gnawing holes into his mind; what  _ if _ he escaped de Haar? Then what? Crawl his way to the closest dock and head home like a cowardly dog,  _ muzzled, beaten, marked, and damaged _ ? 

  
With his luck, he had a better chance at swimming home, because how was he going to afford the crossing? 

  
And what awaited him at home?  _ Shame,  _ mainly and mostly, shame. He’d served Christians, in order to survive. He’d slept between pigs, cattle, shit and Piglet. He’d done  _ nothing  _ memorable aside from enduring a bloody flogging. 

  
What would his brother’s think of him, if he’d told him how he cleaned the enemies chamber pots? How he allowed the entire population of de Haar to take a piss at him? 

  
The worst thing was, by now he’d been so conditioned into his new role, he numbly did what was expected of him. Without a fight, a curse; defiance had literally been beaten out of him.    
A shadow casted over him, expecting the Giant to ruffle him up, Ivar flinched back before glancing up. 

Ivar couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  
“God zij met u,” were gentle words spoken by the fair-maiden. A breeze whispered past, teasing the blonde strands of her hair. Although her posture regained its grace, her beauty still one to match; the light had been robbed from her eyes. 

  
Her sudden presence overwhelmed Ivar and it showed; a blush scorching his cheeks, setting his face on fire. Full of shame, he lowered his gaze and waited for her unblemished ankle boots to pass. 

  
By the Gods, she must have turned into flawless marble, because she was not moving an inch. Now if it was up to Ivar, he’d remain ignoring her presence until the day he died. But she was standing on the spot he needed to clean and  _ if _ the Giant caught him neglecting or  _ pausing _ his task, the fair-maiden would witness him being beat. 

  
Leaning into his embarrassment was inevitable. Ivar felt awkward and reticent, yet managed to glance up. 

  
Her expression lacked security too, and there was that brokenness again. The longing, the burning expectation of a sign, of something good. 

  
Did she honestly still believe that the rumours of his ‘Martyrdom’ were true? Months had passed since the forty lashes, if he’d been anything other than human he’d surely have allowed a miracle to happen. One that set flames to the highest towers of De Haar. A plague to strike anyone that ever dared to harm him; causing puss filled blisters to scar their faces, like the whippings that had scarred his back and shoulder blades. 

  
But no, no miracle in the form of sickness or fire had occurred. His life still wasted away, while hers had worsened by marriage. He did not have anything to offer her, and he wished he had the words to tell her that.

  
There was no escape, from neither of their lives. He could not save her from Ludolf’s marital ties. He could not save her from being raped and abused, because Ludolf was her husband, the young ruler of de Haar. 

  
The Giant must have smelled his cold sweat, like a bloodhound, the brute lumbered across the cobble-stoned centre in a direct line towards Ivar and the fair-maiden. 

  
Both eyes of the youngsters locked in a shared understanding until Ivar broke it off. Well, was forced to break it off. A vicious yank on his hair forced him to hunch forward, causing him to tap over his bucket. The wooden tool tumbled down the stairs, splashing water all over the place. Ivar didn’t even register, pain scorched his scalp as the Giant picked him up by his hair. 

  
Instinctively, he clung both his hands around the thick wrist of the Giant, as the brute pulled him up to eye-level. 

  
Brandishing his fist in front of Ivar, the Giant diminished the space between them. Almost nose to nose, the bastard started roaring in his face; the stench of tooth rot and decay overwhelming. 

  
Instead of ramming his fist into Ivar’s face, the Giant pushed him down the steps. 

  
Every muscle in Ivar’s body knotted up as his arse hit the first step, spinning he tumbled down the rest of the steps, hitting the back of his head against the bucket and his teeth grazing mud. 

  
The Giant took his time to walk down and kicked the bucket across the cobble-stoned centre.    
He didn’t need to shout his order, Ivar knew he was burdened to repeat his entire task again. 

  
The cloth landed on the back of his head and the Giant walked off.

  
It made Ivar feel so small and insignificant, yet he picked himself up and started crawling towards the bucket. The fair-maiden luckily had disappeared, hopefully she now knew better and would stay far away. 

.-.-.

“What did you do?” Piglet ranted the moment the Giant locked the door. Apparently, his little downfall had been the talk of the town. 

  
“ _ Nothing _ ”, Ivar snapped back, wishing that would be the last word of it. 

  
Of course it wasn’t, Piglet pressed both her palms into her waist and glared down at him. 

  
“She’s trouble! Won’t last long! I’m not going to heal your back again!” She threatened. 

  
This was fuel to Ivar’s simmering fire: “I bled for  _ you, _ not for  _ her _ ”, he reminded her firmly as he rose up to his knees to at least have a shot of being at eye-level with her, “ _ don’t _ tell me what I can do and can’t do, or you might wake up while I ram a nail in your eyeball!”. To give his threat more weight he thrust his fist forwards, aiming at her face. Their distance was too great by far to even touch the tip of her nose, but his gesture made Piglet sway on her feet. 

  
She must have seen that thing in his eyes; what his mother called rage and she called the Djinn. 

  
“Thick-head”, she announced, and fled up the attic, allowing Ivar to unload on his own. His knuckles grew white from clenching his fists too hard, his teeth gritted from the effort to remain silent. His face was red from suppressed rage, and he hunched forward. It was as if a wildfire burned his insides, slicing and scorching his consciousness away. He blacked out, saw red and when he came to, Piglet sat right in front of him. 

  
His breathing was out of control, fists clenching and unclenching, he noticed stug material being stuck between his teeth. The potato bags from around his knees and legs lay torn and shredded across his box. He choked, inwardly he suffocated. The beatings, the ridicule, the overall indifference for his pain, the absolute monstrosities he’d been through all throughout his life sparked up from every corner of his mind. Memories, old and new, of being unworthy of being alive, unworthy of being a person, shattered in a frenzy. 

  
At a loss for words, unable to express himself, Ivar broke down. He fought it with every fiber of his being, but he wept. Hating his physical reaction he buried his face into his hands and hated, absolutely  _ hated _ himself for expressing such weakness, in such an unmasculine way, in front of another person. 

  
If the Gods would have any mercy, they’d allow him to crawl down a dark hole and never come out. Screwing his eyes shut, Ivar furiously banged his fists into the ground, stirring up the last bit of his anger. It was his last resort to regain some dignity, unleashing one more time and destroying everything his hands and teeth could get a grip off. 

  
Piglet’s touch was so gentle and hesitant, Ivar swore he’d made it up. But when he opened his eyes wide and still on the verge of madness, the slave maiden wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. She did not speak, only held him close. Her silence didn’t feel empty, rather, it enveloped him and allowed him to bear his grief and choke through his tears and pain. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, it fluttered at the feeling of her body pressing against his. 

Although he wished to fight it, he sank into the warmth of her simple gesture. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, in return, Piglet carefully twined hers around his lower back.

  
Since he’d taken the path of no return, he allowed himself to find safety in the crook of her neck. 

  
“They broke me, Piglet. I’m broken”, the grunt that escaped the back of his throat was soft and hoarse. 

“No, not broken Ivar,” she whispered into his hair, “damaged. But damage heals”. 

  
For some reason, her words planted back a seed of hope, at least to get through another night and another day. 

  
  


.-.-.

_ A/N: So, did I have any kind of storyline for this chapter. No, this was a total freefall. Lightly inspired by episode ‘The Outsider’ (see Ivar rant on my tumblr). Halfway I thought ‘kay I’ve physically screwed him up a dozen times, why not break him down mentally. Oh and let's make him cry, yet try to keep him in character’. Tada… this happened. Loved writing it! First the total overload of frustrations and then the breakdown.  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ Eager to read your thoughts/opinions, 

_ Xoxoxox Nukyster _


	29. Bird of nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you?” Ivar whispered, pulling Piglet close and keeping the knife raised above his head.

**.-.-.**

“I am the youngest offspring of Ragnar Lothbrok, the most famous Viking who ever lived,” Ivar spoke, pressing the back of his head against the board that separated the boxes. After his disgraceful meltdown, he felt the need to overcompensate and in all honesty, his royal blood seemed like his last resort. 

  
Piglet paused her knitting, she’d been trying to patch the destroyed potato sacks together, giving him a long bug-eyed look that she eventually broke off to continue her work. 

  
Ivar couldn’t tell if she believed him or not, but she wasn’t mocking him yet, so he continued: “he was a king, a legend. And I was destined to be at his side, to  _ die _ , by his side-” he paused and let out a long deep sign, “-but I failed to do so. It displeased the Gods, so now I’m here. With you, enslaved and ruled out of dying with dignity. Which means I will either die an unworthy death, or of old age, which I highly doubt. Doesn’t matter though, both won’t grant me access to Valhalla. Which means I will never see my father, nor my brothers and mother, again.”

  
In the shimmer of twilight, it was hard to see, but Piglet’s eyes slowly welled up with tears and although she furiously rubbed her face, it was evident she’d been touched by his revelation. 

  
It again brought Ivar back to the great puzzle that was Piglet, the still nameless slave maiden who time after time surprised him with the tricks up her sleeves. 

  
But before Ivar could reminisce about Piglet’s past, the maiden jolted up and dropped the bags.

“UTSTOTT!” She exclaimed, and hastily started to move her hands through the blanket of hay.   
Ivar could feel the color drain from his face and cursed himself for not thinking about the tiny white raven sooner. 

  
Piglet hurried to pick up her broom and started sweeping the shed, while Ivar scanned every inch of his box with his eyes and hands. He checked everywhere, inside his trough, underneath the loose planks of the floorboard, and clenched his jaw when he noticed all the ripped pieces of potato bag. What if, during his fit of rage, he’d ripped off the hatchling’s wings as easily as he’d destroyed the tough fabric? 

  
“Seek upstairs!” Ivar ordered with a voice that skipped a few beats, when Piglet returned empty handed from her search. 

  
What if he stomped it? What if he killed it? 

  
Ivar swept away hay and scraped his palms over the sandy floor until his box was empty. 

  
“He vanished”, Piglet mumbled sorrowfully, as her search upstairs had been fruitless as well, “maybe you scared him off and he escaped?” 

  
Ivar threw her an annoyed glance and motioned to the door, “we’re locked up, he’s small, but not small enough to pass through the door’s lock!” 

  
Ivar shoved his trough aside, turned over a bucket that lay in reach and checked the floorboards again all while Piglet pushed and pulled herself through cattle.

  
A soft caw made both of them freeze, the sound was almost inaudible and sounded from far, far away. But it was there, dull and muffled, as if there was a thick wall in between them. 

  
Ivar covered his ears, trying to locate the side the sound was coming from. A caw echoed from the attic, but the moment Ivar wanted to scold Piglet for being such a lousy seeker, the sound stopped and traveled downstairs, over the boxes and ended underneath Ivar’s floorboard.

  
Ivar’s mouth dropped; because that featherless chick could in no way possible travel so fast on his own. He’d seen it wobble through the shed, there was no way those naked feathers could carry his weight. 

  
Piglet must have realised that too, because the slave maiden glanced around the corner of Ivar’s box with huge eyes, shock written all over her face. 

  
Ivar didn’t know what held him back and eventually decided it could not be fright when he pulled up the plank of the floorboard. Expecting Utstott to be seated on top of his humble treasury; woodcarvings, nails, the knife and sling, Ivar’s face went completely blank when the baby bird wasn’t there. 

  
A caw came from up close and Piglet let out a petrified shriek, hastily moving down at Ivar’s side. Casting anxious skyward glances, she pinched Ivar’s shoulder and huddled close to him.

  
“Voodoo!” she whimpered and cried out when a high pitched caw blared right over their heads. Ivar froze and could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He recalled his first weeks inside the shed; how he’d battled fever and the mare riding his chest. He also recalled  _ vividly _ how he’d witnessed his father being devoured by a flock of ravens. 

  
When he regained strength, he simply brushed it off as feverish dreams intensified by the mare. Yet, during the feverish days, he’d been staring into the shadows, petrified to register tarred feathers and beaks inside the darkness of the shed. 

  
A gust of cold night’s air made the pair duck their heads down, instinctively Ivar shoved Piglet down to the floor and reached for the knife, although he highly doubted it would do any damage. 

  
The cawing continued and it started to frighten the animals inside, for they could sense the unnatural atmosphere. 

  
To make matters worse, Piglet’s body went completely limp, only to abruptly shoot into a series of spasms. 

  
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me”, Ivar hissed through his teeth and hastily dragged the young woman onto her side so she wouldn’t choke on her own tongue. Her eyes were all white while her limbs convulsed in quick and odd motions. 

  
Piglet’s unconsciousness made Ivar feel utterly alone and exposed. Raising the knife in his fist, he held his breath- all while holding onto Piglet’s chin to prevent her from banging her face into the floor. 

  
Another caw cackled through the shed; it didn’t come from one side, no- it seemed to twirl in circles. 

  
It was then and there that Ivar realised he could either whimper as a coward or face the unknown abomination hiding inside the shadows. 

  
“SHOW YOURSELF!” Ivar roared, rising up to his knees and puffing his chest out. 

  
‘What are the odds of survival?’ Ivar asked himself. He was in chains, crippled, and his only ally lay in a seizure down on the floor. 

  
As an answer, the cawing evaporated and all went quiet inside the shed, aside from the soft frightened noises of the animals. 

  
Ivar’s eyes darted through the room, scanning all shadows and dark corners. Surely, this couldn’t be the end of it? 

  
A small beak appeared from around the corner of his box, causing Ivar to withdraw and land on his arse. To keep a slice of his dignity, he struggled back onto his knees and watched the tiny hatchling hop over Piglet’s makeshift line. There was a bit of smugness in his strutt as he blinked a couple of times; one eye glazed and milky white, the other a vibrant blue. 

  
“ _ What  _ are you?” Ivar whispered, pulling Piglet close and keeping the knife raised above his head. 

  
Utstott tilted his head, puffing up his humble feathers as he hopped toward Ivar. Like a half naked, fluffy ball, Utstott inched closer and closer. For some reason, Ivar sensed that the bird knew he’d be able to kill it, yet that didn’t stop him. Utstott didn’t fear Ivar. 

  
Inch for inch, Ivar lowered the knife until he placed it down onto the floor and reached his hand out to the hatchling. 

  
Contentment seemed to beam from the tiny creature as it seated itself into the palm of Ivar’s hand. 

  
“What are you?”, Ivar wondered, calmer this time as he watched the bird peck at its own feathers, “what are you?”.

.-.-.

Piglet and Ivar did not see eye to eye; the slave maiden was convinced Utstott was ‘black magic’, an evil creature summoned from Jahannam, a place of blazing fire and the final destination of sinners. 

Despite Piglet’s conviction, Ivar still couldn't put his finger on what Utstott  _ actually  _ was, and decided to keep him. 

  
Utstott sided with Ivar, with a raspy caw the bird sat on his shoulder and refused to leave that spot. 

  
“ _ Fine _ ”, Piglet eventually settled, “but you lock it up!” 

  
So, Ivar forced a deeply insulted Utstott inside a crate and placed his trough on top of it. He highly doubted the bird would remain inside of the makeshift cage, but it calmed Piglet’s fear.

  
Another day of scrubbing started and with that, rain started to pour down. Usually the task was pointless, now it was simply a joke. Ivar spent the first few hours of dawn soaking wet; his hair became one with his face, wetly draping over his bone structure. Muddy water splashed up everytime someone hastily passed him, hurried to find shelter inside. 

  
Oh, but Ivar continued his pointless task, gritting his teeth as the Giant watched him from the doorway. The large man stood with crossed arms, contently watching his slave from up high and dry. 

  
Another dreadful and overall  _ wet _ day ended and Ivar’s knees soaked the hay as he was returned to his shackles. The moment the Giant left, Ivar plucked at the cuff of his tunic and hastily peeled it off; he wasn’t cold per se, spring had been kind to him today. But removing the soaked fabric from his skin felt like a blessing. 

  
Piglet silently picked up his clothes and hung them out. Throwing a few blankets to his side, she paced around the shed for a few moments before casually mentioning:

  
“I think Utstott died”, as she watched how Ivar’s face fell, she quickly added: “he didn’t make any sound all day”. 

  
Ivar’s eyes shot to the crate and he crawled toward it, picking it up, he shook the wooden box. He didn’t hear the sound of Utstott’s aggravated caws, nor did he hear a tiny limp body toss and turn. 

  
“He vanished again”, Ivar explained as he showed Piglet the empty crate, “see?”. 

“By Allah…”, Piglet’s voice faded as she stared in shock at the emptiness inside the crate. She faltered down onto her knees and started a prayer: “Bismillaahir-Rahmaanir-Raheem . Qul 'a'oothu birabbin-naas . Malikin-naas . 'Ilaahin-naas . Min sharril-waswaasil-khannaas. Allathee yuwaswisu fee sudoorin-naas. Minal-jinnati wannaas”. 

Ivar simply rolled his eyes and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders: “don’t be such a wimp Piglet, he did not do anything harmful to us”. 

  
“That’s easy for you to say!” Piglet snapped through her prayer, “you’re Viking, you’re religion is an interplay of wickedness and bloodshed. The place you call ‘hell’ is a simple wasteland for the weak. My version of hell is an endless circle of pain and suffering and I  _ will not _ put my soul on the line for your demonic bird!”.

  
Perfectly on cue, Utstott came teettering from underneath Piglets skirts, causing the slave maiden to scream bloody murder. Jumping onto the tips of her toes, she tried to kick the little hatchling.    
  


Utstott managed to avoid Piglet’s toes and quickly ran toward Ivar for safety. He made one final jump, flapped his little wings, and landed onto Ivar’s lap. 

  
“Hamar! Idiot! Thick-head!” Piglet cursed him, as Ivar clapped his hands and started laughing. “You’re damming yourself! I won’t be a part of this!” 

  
Ivar continued laughing and shook his head as Piglet barged up the stairs to the attic. Petting the tiny bird, he watched Utstott puff up his feathers and close his beady eyes in content.    
  
Later that night, Piglet eventually moved to Ivar’s side, instead of remaining upstairs. The fear of the danger that lingered outside of the walls of their shed victored over the fear she held for the little white raven. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: For those of you who’d like to be refreshed, I highly suggest you re-read chapter 5; ‘Eaten Alive’, that’s the chapter where Ivar’s fever gets the best of him and he sees his father being devoured by ravens.  _

_ Hope you enjoyed this chapter and I’m very curious how you feel about Utstott. _

_ Xoxox Nukyster _

  
  



	30. Words as a weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disillusion struck Ivar when he realised his ‘Great Hall’ could easily fit into the ‘Main Hall’ of Castle de Haar.

.-.-.

As a young boy, Ivar had always envisioned that their Great Hall was the biggest, strongest, and tallest house in the entire world. Its walls were high enough for Giants, and the glorious flames of it’s fireplace always managed to thaw every frozen hand and foot present, without fail. Feasts and celebrations were held; ale and mead flowed heavily, while thralls brought in entire roasted boars. 

  
Disillusion struck Ivar when he realised his ‘Great Hall’ could easily fit into the ‘Main Hall’ of Castle de Haar. 

  
As a new rainy day started, the Giant had carried him through the doorway and ordered him to scrub the muddy floor inside. Torches illuminated the hallway, which stood high and mighty. Every stone was even and square, the hall itself was a structure of perfection; made to protect and embosome power and wealth. 

  
It made Ivar feel like a slimy worm; even if the residents of the castle knew about his royal blood, he’d still be a dirty little heathen, as his ‘Great Hall’ stood closer to the shed he lived in right now. 

He kept his eyes firmly on the floor, as the Giant randomly snuck up on him to check his process. But, occasionally his curiosity got the best of him; every door that opened was a temptation he couldn’t resist. 

  
One room in particular stood out, it must be the dinner room. Endless oak tables filled it up, under the protection of suits of armour, swords crossed on the walls. Luxurious woven rugs covered the floors, while the candles in tremendous golden chandeliers kept the room lit at all times. 

  
Ivar took a lot of time scrubbing the doorway leading into the dinner hall, stunned and baffled at how human hands could have created such an immense place. 

  
It also filled him with bitterness; it was wrong that two fat pigs were rulers of such grandeur and inhuman beauty. It stung him even deeper when he realised Ludolf would eventually rule every corner of every hall. All because of blood.

  
The Giant half kicked, half shoved him up a twisting spiral staircase. Ivar struggled, but counted a hundred and twenty four steps. And, about six times a massive boot kicking his arse. 

  
The instructions of the Giant started to become redundant;  _ scrub another hallway _ . It would have started to become boring, if it weren’t for Ivar being placed in what was now another, much higher, part of the castle. 

  
And, as it turned out,  _ less supervised _ , as the Giant didn’t enjoy taking the hundred and twenty four steps up and down. 

  
The brute still held regular checks, but as Ivar counted the time in between, it gave him triple the amount of time to let his eyes linger and take forbidden breaks. Aside from that, it was very  _ easy  _ to hear the Giant approach; the man weighed a ton and his breathless panting echoed up the staircase about thirty seconds before his hideous face appeared. 

  
The rooms on this floor weren't as imposing as the dinner hall, yet they still sparked Ivar’s curiosity; although he hated the Christians it was interesting to see how they lived. Many of the doors were closed and Ivar didn’t dare think of opening one up. The few that were an inch ajar, however, were diligently inspected. 

  
Nothing really stood out, mostly storage rooms, a linen room and one that stank of human waste, Ivar quickly averted himself away from that one. 

  
Mischievous giggles and chattering reached Ivar’s ears as he slaved through the hallway. It was the sound of a pair of young women. More women than Ivar dared to approach;  _ a _ s  _ a woman _ already had enough power to make him feel undesirable and ugly, everything up to a pair was simply impossible to face. 

  
But here, on foreign land, he did have one advantage; the language barrier. Although it would not make their disgusted expressions any less painful, at least any well-aimed spiteful words would pass him. 

  
That, and the fact that he didn’t think his presence would make much commotion; he was a simple slave after all. Sure, the crippled one that survived forty lashes, but that event happened a winter ago. He was old news, a slave; not the handicapped Viking son. 

  
Ivar lingered in the doorway and saw the two linen maidens handling a large wooden table loom. One was unknotting a ball of wool, while the other picked out a new color. Both were completely engulfed in their conversation. The topic of which must have been something extremely funny; one giggled loud enough for the entire castle to hear, while the other made exaggerated motions and faces. 

  
It was enjoyable to watch something so human and careless; a nice chance to observe two young women having a silly conversation. Aside from that, Ivar  _ did  _ enjoy observing the opposite sex. The fact that he couldn’t ‘get it up and please a woman’ did not lessen his interest. The mere existence of young women always felt like a thorn in his eye, though, because he was incapable of interacting with them. Such an experience always summoned up his shame, insecurity, and fire-red cheeks, yet their presence drew him in like a moth to a flame. 

  
Women, the embodiment of the one thing he could never have; love. Sex, a relationship. A thorn not only in his eye; but deeply embedded inside of his heart too. Women, seductive but simply out of his reach, for he wasn’t even able to stand next to them, as an equal. No, his place was much closer to the floor. He was beneath women, always looked down upon.

  
Someone tapped his shoulder and Ivar darted back in reflex. He had dropped his guard and hadn’t been counting the time in between the Giant’s last visit. Banging his head against the doorframe, he managed to knock the door open, alerting the two linen maidens. 

  
He managed to make a complete and utter fool out of himself, in less than a second. The opposite sex had that effect on him. 

  
To absolutely destroy the last bit of his dignity, he realised it had been the fair-maiden who touched his shoulder. 

  
The silence that emerged instantly changed into loud cackling laughter as the two linen maidens saw Ivar’s wide-eyed, dumbstruck expression, while repositioning himself against the doorframe. 

  
Even the fair-maiden hid a smile behind her hand and stepped aside of him, taking her place on a stool beside the linen maidens. 

  
Ivar tried to recollect himself by hastily brushing over the tiles on the floor. When the young women picked up their conversation and included the fair-maiden, Ivar dared to risk a peek.    
His worst nightmare came true, he was evidently the center of their focus, three pairs of bemused eyes watched his every move. 

  
Ivar found it wise to retreat and hopefully throw himself out of any available window. Not even that wish was granted, before he could push himself up onto his elbows and crawl away, the fair-maiden raised her hand. 

  
As a slave, Ivar obeyed her order, although laced with hesitation and confusion.

  
“Blijf,” spoke the fair-maiden with a lovely voice, “kom bij ons zitten,” and she tapped on a stock of woven blankets. 

  
Unsure Ivar balanced on the palms of his hands, staring up at each of the three women. Although the linen maiden still wore their bemused smirks, they weren’t laughing  _ at him  _ and the fair-maiden motioned at the blankets again. 

  
And so Ivar dragged his lower half across the room, sitting aside of the fair-maiden as her lapdog. His self confidence diminished and he kept his gaze in a straight line to the tips of his toes as conversation around him carried on. Nervous Ivar’s fingers plucked at the loose strings of the blankets he sat on.

  
“Wat is jouw naam?” Suddenly the conversation paused and tried to include him.

  
Ivar looked back up at the fair-maiden; an unwelcome flush of pink arsing in his cheeks. Now he did hate himself for being too stubborn to learn the basics of Dietsch. 

  
The fair-maiden noticed his struggle and turned towards the linen maidens: “Badelog,” she extracted her arm towards the blonde, “Duna,” she pointed at the brunette, “Mabelia,” she spoke last and pressed the palm of her hand on her chest. 

  
“Wat is jouw naam?” 

  
“Ivar,” his voice was quite, less sure.

  
“ _ Ivar _ ,” the fair-maiden repeated with her lovely dulcet voice, “Badelog, Duna, Mabelia en  _ Ivar _ ”, she repeated.

  
Ivar nodded sheepishly as his head got hazy. The three maiden, or Badelog, Duna and Mabelia chattered on, while picking up their craft. It surprised Ivar to see the fair-maiden, or Mabelia, pick up needlework. On the other hand, what fun was there to do inside this enormous castle for a young woman? 

  
“Hier, maak jezelf nuttig,” Duna directed herself to Ivar and gave him a knot of wool which was all tangled up. 

  
And so Ivar was set to work, to again do women's work. It beat scrubbing the floors by  _ far _ . He literally sat high and dry inside the castle, all while quietly listening to three of his peers having a cheerful afternoon. 

  
This all ended abruptly as the Giant burst into the room, breathing like a mad horse. In his fist he was holding Ivar’s bucket and seemed to light himself on fire the moment he lay eyes on his cripple slave, seated in the midst of three women. 

  
Ivar automatically dropped the wool and brought his elbows towards his face. Last time the Giant caught him slacking on his duty he’d been thrown down the stairs. The closest stairs had a hundred and twenty four steps; he’d break every bone in his body if he tumbled down all those steps. 

  
The Giant leaped into action, took hold of Ivar’s collar and dragged him up until the tips of his toes levitated a few inches above the floor.

  
The two linen maidens cautiously jumped back behind the loom as the Giant raised the bucket and aimed at Ivar’s head. The blow was blunt and viscous, with water seeping over him. Aside from being in serious pain, being struck like this was humiliating and cruel. The Giant shook Ivar’s body until he lowered his arms to give the brute a direct aim at his face. Blood gushed down his nose after the second whack with the bucket and Ivar feared the third might cause him his front teeth. 

  
That third blow never came and he had to thank the fair-maiden for that. She rose with grandeur and grace, yet her voice turned into ice and anger. 

  
Without a speck of her usual submissive demeanor she started to fume at the Giant. Even though her frame and length was petite, she stood seven feet tall and seemed to outmatch the Giant in size and power. 

  
As Ivar hung defenseless in the man’s arm, the bastard seemed to shrink into the size of a mouse, muffling small words of apology to the fair-maiden, the soon-to-be ruler of de Haar. 

  
Ivar was released, his body sinking back onto the stock of wool, with the Giant’s jaw tightening as he shot Ivara deadpan expression before exiting the room. 

  
While pinching his bloody nose, Ivar could not believe he wasn’t sent a hundred and twenty four steps down the stairs. 

  
Comfort in the form of an embroidered handkerchief was kindly gifted, by Mabelia. She had a hard time controlling the tension on her face. She knew her place well, that was evident, but that didn’t mean that claiming her rightful place came naturally to her. Christians had such a strange belief; that women were less than men. Which didn’t make any sense, because although men were able to take life, the power was in the hands of women to create it. Ivar grew up with a strong and powerful example of a woman who ruled with grace and an iron fist. 

  
Here such women would be tongue tied, broken and overruled by their husband. In de Haar, this was Mabelia’s future, past, and present. 

  
Ivar pressed the white cotton against his nostrils and curled up a bit to keep the blood from running onto his clothes. 

  
Duna cleared her throat and soon conversation carried on, as the three young women picked up their daily routine. 

  
His face stung and all he tasted was blood, but by the Gods did he feel fortunate. Not strong, no, because he’d coward like a small child into the skirts of the fair-maiden. But she’d chosen to take  _ him  _ underneath her wings. She stood up for him, faced the Giant and victored by using words as her weapon.

  
After his nose stopped bleeding, Ivar dully picked the yarn back up and as he tried to untangle the wires, he also tried to unravel the chaos inside of his own mind. Because how could it be possible that someone of noble blood reached out to a crippled slave? 

  
At the end of noon Duna walked Ivar back towards the shed. While crawling down the main gate, Ivar spotted the Giant on his knees scrubbing the moss-covered stones of the staircases.    
Grinning now would be a death sentence, so Ivar bit the inside of his cheeks to keep his face in shape. But inside he wasn’t just laughing, no, he was towering over that god damned bastard and pissing all over all the steps the Giant needed to scrub. 

.-.-.

Piglet had this sixth sense for destroying all forms of happiness. She must have learned to master that skill by studying the Giant. 

She knew, without a doubt, that Ivar had been inside the castle and when he crawled in with a smirk beaming off his face, her gut instinct must have told her it had  _ something _ to do with the fair-maiden. 

  
Or at least with the Giant, because the man didn’t even bother to glance at Ivar as he shackled his slave back up for the night. By the way he slammed the door with all his might it was evident he hadn’t enjoyed taking over Ivar’s task. 

  
Piglet’s annoying habit of shutting Ivar out emerged. She ignored him and managed to lay an excessive amount of animosity in the few glares she did grant him. 

  
Right now, Ivar couldn’t care less about his companion’s hostility. For today he’d been the one ‘high and dry’ and learned the Giant’s Achilles heel; the fair-maiden named Mabelia. 

  
“Mabelia”, Ivar called her name under his breath. It sounded delicate, pure, like a flower. Thoughtlessly, Ivar petted Utstott’s featherless head. The bird had reclaimed his position on Ivar’s shoulder, as the rightful heir. 

  
Peering sightlessly at the wall facing him, Ivar had his free hand balled up, keeping the handkerchief from Mabelia out of Piglet’s sight. The young woman would either try to smack some sense back into him or retreat back into a seizure, if she knew about the affinity he held for the Christian ruler. 

  
Maybe he should allow Piglet to strike him, objectively Mabelia was his oppressor. In a world of black and white, it was clear the fair-maiden was the enemy. 

  
Yet his world started to seep through with specks of grey and very deep down inside, there was a small part of him that couldn’t express it’s delight for spending half a day in the midst of female peers. Without being ridiculed, without being treated like a second-class citizen. Today, he’d simply been  _ Ivar _ , and that had been enough. 

Ever since the Giant made him a slave at castle de Haar, the foundations of Ivar’s entire being and upbringing had been shaken. The walls he mastered to build up high and mighty had been effectively damaged by feminine touch and care.    
  
It had shaken him to the core when he’d come to terms with the fact that he cared for Piglet. It had marked his back; his willingness to die for her.    
  
And now, three more female individuals decided to make his miserable life a little less bleak. It made no sense to Ivar, who never saw the thralls in Kattegat as humans, as people.    
  
If judgement day would burst through the doors of castle de Haar,  _ if _ he found a way to burn the place to the ground, would he bring himself to kill those three women as well? They were Christians, for that reason alone they should face decapitation.    
  
Ivar yawned and slouched back against the border, ready to face another sleepless night filled with tossing and turning. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: See Ivar, not all of them damsels are vixens. So, why did I write this chapter? I think because in the TV show all women that surrounded Ivar wanted to use him -we all know who I mean- and all of them betrayed him. Now, without going too much into psychology, it’s hard for a person who’s not familiar with love and affection to make sense of the human need to be kind to another. As in the last bit; Ivar’s whole pov of the world is breaking down. He wants to be a monster, yet experiences that being ‘Ivar’ is accepted as well.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Also, I am curious. As a Dutchie myself I added some ‘Dietsch’ in here (kay I will destroy the magic, it's not ancient Dietsch, I wrote in simple plain 2020 Dutch). Since Ivar refused to learn Dietsch he doesn’t understand the words, so I wonder, how clear was it what the women were asking of him? If it’s easier for you all, I can add the translation down here at the A/N, but since it’s Ivar’s POV, I kinda want to let the reader be left a bit in the dark as well.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Oh and to calm your angered heart, the Giant will eventually suffer, badly. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Xoxoxox Nukyster  _   
  
  



	31. Favorite pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His large, calloused hands were not made for the finer arts. That, and being subjected to the gaze of three young women, was a form of torture Ivar had not lived through before.

.-.-.

Things changed again in Castle de Haar; this time in the crippled slave’s favor. For this morning, it was not the Giant stomping into the shed, no, it was Duna the Brunette who was holding up Ivar’s keys. 

  
Ivar’s duties held more of a feminine touch, as yesterday he was brought up one hundred and twenty-four steps into the linen room, where a large collection of tangled bowls of wool awaited him. 

  
His large, calloused hands were not made for the finer arts. That,  _ and being subjected to the gaze of three young women _ , was a form of torture Ivar had not lived through before. 

This mischievous sisterhood of three giggling, eyelash batting women made Ivar nearly wish the Giant would throw him out of the nearest tower. Was it possible to catch a fever from blushing alone? Because his face was on fire from the moment he crawled back onto the pile of blankets. 

  
Being their timid, awkward lapdog did have its perks, however. The food was undoubtedly the best he’d received since his arrival in castle de Haar. Although he did his best to contain himself, he wolfed down the entire content of his plate and finished before either of the three women started. His face must have looked like a stuffed chicken, cheeks still full, while trying to swallow.

  
The two linen maiden cackled at the way Ivar had to punch himself on the chest to prevent himself from choking on a chunk of bread. The fair-maiden, Mabelia, threw a well-meaning glare at the pair and held out a silver cup of wine for Ivar. 

  
Gulping down the content, Ivar could not help but to feel completely out of place. He was this dirty, vile shadow of filth in the midst of proper, serene creatures, that for reasons unknown wanted him around. 

  
There was something brewing between the three young women, that was evident. Ivar had a sixth sense when it came to others talking about him. After lunch the blonde, Badelog, disappeared and returned with a bowl of hot water and a small, sharp knife. 

  
As Badelog strode up to Ivar, turning the smooth handle in her hands, his face fell and he wondered if she was going to stab it into his back literally, as the three had already done so figuratively.

  
Luckily for Ivar, his mind still held some control over his body. Instead of slitting his throat, the blonde dabbed his chin and jawline with a cloth drenched with hot water. 

  
Ivar lost all forms of masculinity and embraced the warm touch of Badelog’s hands. Tilting his head upwards like a good little lap dog he closed his eyes and breathed out slowly as the cold touch of her blade pressed against the skin of his cheek. Receiving the first proper shave within a year, Ivar’s shoulders slumped back against the wall and he submitted to the tender care of Badelog. 

  
The three young women narrowly inspected every inch of Ivar’s chin, jawline and lips before fully approving Badelog’s work. With arms crossed, they nodded in agreement and spoke in delighted, fluttery cheers. 

  
Ivar still contemplated jumping from the castle, and he blessed the Gods for the fact that his older brothers were far,  _ far _ away from de Haar. 

  
The clean shave did feel incredible though; it gave him a feeling of clarity he hadn’t felt for a very long time. 

  
The pampering wasn’t over yet. Duna took hold of a lock of his greasy hair and held it up between her thumb and index finger. She muttered something and both of the other woman nodded in agreement. 

  
A pair of scissors appeared in view and Ivar was just in time to pull his hair from Duna’s fingers. 

  
“No!” He spoke resolutely, “no”, and he tugged his long hair behind his ears. 

  
For some reason, the three young women thought his action was both funny and endearing. Their high pitched gasps made Ivar’s face sear so vibrantly it could warm up the sun. 

  
Focusing on the tips of his toes, Ivar wished the young women would continue their work so he would no longer be the centre of their focus. This small favour was granted, and Ivar managed to breath again. Cautious, he rubbed his fingers over the smooth skin of his jawline. He knew it brought out his boyish features, sending him back a few steps into boyhood. 

  
Ivar never considered himself handsome, nor beautiful. The heads he did manage to turn in Kattegat had always been because of his disability. He was a cripple and he did not expect anyone to look past that hideous default. 

  
So, maybe if he’d taken the trouble to learn a little bit of basic Dietsch, and would have been brave enough to peek up, Ivar would have noticed how the three young women were slightly enchanted by the presence of the cripple of de Haar. 

  
The extraordinary stranger, who’d stood up for the black skinned slave against Ludolf and taken a horrendous flogging for it. No, those three young women hadn’t forgotten his bravery, for all three of them were subjected to the twisted cravings of the young ruler. 

  
It was hard not to be drawn to this hero; with long, tousled, dark brown hair. His eyes, a mesmerizing deep blue like the ocean. With strong hands, rough from working, and with skin kissed by the spring sun. 

  
A handsome hero, a survivor of a death sentence; it would be hard for any woman to ignore those facts  _ or _ features. 

.-.-.

Piglet did not speak a word about Ivar’s refreshed appearance. She did not speak a word at all, but her disapproval was evident. Utstott sided with her, quite literally. The slave and the puffy white raven were united in their disdain toward Ivar siding with the Christians, forming a bond. 

  
Utstott sat on top of Piglet’s bandana, cawing raucously at Ivar when he tried to pet the bird. Utstott hopped from Piglet’s head to her shoulder, receiving a few pieces of veiny beef from the young woman. It was the only meat of that evening’s meal and Piglet gave it to the bird instead of sharing it with Ivar. As she fed the bird her eyes were scorching and smoldering,  _ daring him _ to say something about it. 

  
Ivar cut his losses and ignored the flaring dark eyes and the beady blue one. He’d eaten like a King in the midst of Duna, Badelog and Mabelia. Surely he’d survive the night with this meager meal. 

  
“They call me  _ teer kind,  _ tar child”, Piglet announced as she picked up their plates, “your two new well-wishers”, she continued when Ivar raised his chin in her direction, “pulled my headscarf off and ran off laughing”, she gave half a shrug and straightened her back, “I’d rather crawl over hot coals then show any man my hair”, she paused and picked up the last plate, “and the wife of Ludolf, she’ll break soon. She won’t last long.” 

  
Ivar couldn’t decide if Piglet’s last words were meant as a threat or a promise. He didn’t respond to her spiteful words. His lack of reaction only flared up Piglet’s resentment and the young woman spat in his direction, positioning herself in the furthest corner of his box to spend the night.    
  
Her attitude over Ivar’s improved way of work did strike him below the belt. In her eyes he betrayed her, but in all honesty, he had no control over the orders he received. Sure, today’s labour was hardly enough to call work, but it wasn’t like he  _ wanted _ to spend an whole day with the three young women.    
  
At least, that was what he was whole-heartedly telling himself. That he did not have a choice, that  _ of course _ , he hated slaving for the Christians. It was easier believing that lie, instead of facing the fact that he deeply wished that tomorrow, he’d have to crawl up those endless stairs again. 

  
  
  


.-.-. 

Ivar’s place as favorite pet was short term. The next morning Duna did come to unshackle his chains, but instead of climbing a hundred and twenty four steps, he was sent into the kitchen. Duna’s expression had been blank as she pressed a knife and bowl into his hands. 

  
Anxious, Ivar started his task of peeling potatoes, occasionally glancing at the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fair-maiden. 

  
In the evening Piglet’s resentful mood lessened for a bit, they played their game and to keep the atmosphere bearable for the rest of the night Ivar did not ask anything about the fair-maiden or the linen maidens. Utstott still bore an attitude towards Ivar, but allowed him to pet it’s growing feathers as a token of peace. The raven had found itself a place during the night on top of Ivar’s box and kept it’s one functioning eye open. For some reason it was quite reassuring to have the bird keeping watch at night, it allowed Ivar to relax and actually catch a good night sleep. 

  
A few days passed and Ivar dreaded the familiar boredom of mindless tasks inside the kitchen. He met the linen maidens occasionally, tried to respectfully smile at them, but didn’t dare to approach them. He wasn’t sure if that might be a sign of crossing boundaries and under the watchful eyes of Big Cunt and Little Cunt, every move was registered. He knew the linen maidens were also one of the lower residences of De Haar, yet he still remained at the bottom, last in rank. 

  
Both the young women seemed hesitant to even acknowledge his presence and ignored him, without the fair maiden’s protection as future ruler, they chose to linger on the safe side. Which meant far away from Ivar; the scapegoat of the Giant. 

  
The absence of the fair maiden made the brute crawl out of his hole, which of course meant Ivar was quickly pulled from the kitchen and placed back aside the well. Cleaning chamber pots.

  
“Rumor has it,” Piglet spat coldly, sitting on the stone wall of the well she’d brought Ivar a chunk of bread, “that she’s with child.” 

  
She did not need to be specific in her revelation, and both remained silent for a while. 

Once more, conflict began to swell inside Ivar’s ribcage. It was a fight between Viking and Slave. His pride and heritage forbid it to feel any sliver of sympathy for the young woman bound to bear a child of a monstrous husband. 

  
Yet the crippled slave still savoured the memory of her lips pressed against his, it didn’t matter that it had only lasted for a mere moment. Her kindness confused him, yet intrigued him immensely. She wanted something of him,  _ hope _ , above anything. And although the guilt ripped him to pieces, he wanted to be near her. Even if it was as a humiliated lapdog. Because in a way, Mabelia made him feel less damaged. On the contrary, there was an odd sense of worship in her gaze, every time their eyes met. She truly believed that he was de Martelaar, favoured by her God. 

  
Maybe that was another thing that tore him up inside; her high expectation. She must have known why Ivar was being punished with forty lashes. He’d drawn her husband’s blood to protect Piglet and he knew she longed for him to save her virtue too. 

  
And he failed her, dreadfully. 

  
“She won’t last long,” Piglet whispered thoughtlessly, picking at the moss covered wall of the well, “she won’t last long.” 

.-.-.   
  


_ A/N: So what I liked about tv Ivar is that he can be 100% ruthless, barbaric, a tyrant, the worst of the worst. Yet at the same time, place a woman in the same room and he turns into this awkward teenage boy. Humbled by the mere sight of a woman of his interest. Remember the first moment with Freydis? He just victored over York, poured boiling gold into the mouth of a priest. Worst of the worst, evil, demonic. And then watch how he sort of melts for simply being kissed. Sorta -am I worthy?- So yes, that’s a part I kind of wanted to explore a little further in Changing Course. His reaction to kindness, women of his peers, the confliction of liking them versus being a Viking. Versus being Piglet’s companion.  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ I’d love to hear your thoughts about my A/N and about the chapter of course. 

_ Xoxoxox Nukyster _


	32. Sky is over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Christians believe in the devil, they also believe in angels. She’d been one—an angel, for a few blinks of an eye.

.-.-.

  
  


Of course, Ivar could not foresee how the Gods had intertwined the fates of all residences living in de Haar, or how his arrival inside the walls of the great Castle caused a ripple effect. In Midgard, as in all other realms, every single soul had its purpose, had a place. A mission, a reason. And so, in de Haar, everyone played his and her part, following their own laws, paths and religion. 

  
Yet some events were inevitable- bound to happen, for all humans were just pawns in the hands of their masters and Gods. 

Piglet’s prediction came true the next Sunday morning, right before the service. 

The fair maiden, Mabelia, indeed did not manage to last long inside the walls of de Haar. 

The burden of being a woman, of being a  _ wife _ to a monster, had simply been too much for her to carry on her shoulders. As Christians believe in the devil, they also believe in angels. She’d been one—an angel, for a few blinks of an eye, as she stared up to the heavens one last time, spread her arms, and wished for her Lord to take her into paradise. 

  
Mabelia, wife of the future ruler of de Haar, stepped off the balcony, a leap of one hundred and twenty-four steps during that particular Sunday morning. Dressed in all white, she gracefully accepted her descent and embraced her end. Rumor had it that her blood soaked lips turned into a smile the moment her eyes glazed with death. 

  
Neither Ivar nor Piglet had seen the body. By the time they were unleashed from their shed, Mabelia had been taken away, all that remained of her was a bloody trail. 

  
Sunday service carried on, without the priest uttering a word about Mabelia’s choice to take her own life. Suicide was an act against God, an abomination, and one of the worst crimes. 

  
Yet in a castle as big as de Haar, whispers rapidly spread into rumors and before the end of the service, Piglet quietly informed Ivar about the passing of the fair-maiden.

  
“Ivar, she took her own life”, Piglet whispered, keeping her hands clasped and eyes closed as she kept up the act of praying, “I’m sorry.” 

  
Ivar hadn’t been paying much attention to the commotion around him, for he’d found another loose nail and had been trying to pry it loose. 

  
As Piglet’s words echoed in his ears, he could feel his mouth opening and shutting like a fish on dry land. Still as a statue, he was temporarily incapable of controlling his speech nor his body. It was as if he shut down. Paralysed from head to toe, his mind tried to block Piglet’s message.

  
“I’m sorry”, Piglet repeated again and unclasped her hands to take his, “I’m sorry.” 

  
Ivar didn’t even register her soft touch, still ridged as a board. 

  
He did not speak and sat quietly below the table inside the kitchen after service, unable to touch his food. His brain desperately scrambled his thoughts and the mix of emotions, trying to make sense of it all. 

  
Disbelief abruptly made way for realisation, as his next task wasn’t to scrub the staircase of the main entrance. The Giant ordered Ivar to clean the blood that had been shed due to a fall of a hundred and twenty-four steps down. 

  
Against the grey stones the blood was stark, the undeniable evidence of the fair-maiden’s passing. 

  
‘Mabelia,’ Ivar reminded himself firmly, ‘she had a name, Mabelia’.

Mechanically, Ivar scrubbed the splattered pattern. The cloth soaking blood until the fabric remained pink. It was hers, the last bit of her. His mind took in the evidence and recreated a picture of her downfall. With flailing limbs, eyes closed, people in panic moving away. 

  
And then blood, specks and spatters. Ivar watched his shaking hands trying to wring out the blood. Scrubbing away the last memory of her and her kindness. 

  
As he finished his task, he couldn’t take his eyes off his hands; bloody and raw. 

  
The grief came in waves, little ones at first, as he desperately tried to maintain a straight face as the Giant shackled him back up for the night. 

  
But when Piglet retreated inside their shed with food, the waves had grown so strong they swept him away. The overall feeling of drowning swept him down into a deep dark abyss.    
She was gone, robbed herself of her own life and robbed him of the last crumb of happiness. For that he hated her,  _ deeply _ and  _ spitefully _ . Yet the hostility he felt toward her crime was just a speck of emotion. 

  
A small sob worked its way out of his throat as he tried to remain strong and untouchable. Oh, what a joke, what an absolute joke. His self-control had been dissolving the moment he laid eyes on her spilled blood. 

  
This was how it must feel to have your heart truly shattered by a woman. And the worst of it was, he couldn’t blame her for it. She’d done him no harm, she’d simply ended her own misery.    
And no-one aside from him seemed to care about her fate. The world outside the shed simply carried on. Sure, the rumors would whisper through the stone hallways, glances would be cast toward Ludolf, and all fishwives would share their opinion. But aside from that, Mabelia’s name would fade away, her image would be that of an unstable, daft woman. 

Life inside the walls of de Haar would continue, the rulers would rule and the slaves would be treated as creatures. 

  
  


.-.-.

The next morning Ivar was immediately submitted to the Giant’s retributions. The brute didn’t even bother to unshackle him. A rain of angry fists and heavy boots casted down upon Ivar. Behind Piglet’s panicked screams, was just the hammering of Ivar’s heart attempting to escape his chest. Nothing else ran through his mind, he simply focused on his racing heartbeat, trying to hide his face and block as much as he could. 

  
His body jolted with a new vigor as it was shoved and kicked like a ragdoll on a very short leash.    
There was the mixture of sounds; Piglet’s desperate pleads, the Giant’s breathless pants, and the sound Ivar’s voice made as his body was beaten into a bloody mess. 

  
In between the kicks and swinging fists he passed out, and if it weren’t for Piglet throwing herself into the line of fury he might have failed to ever wake up. The slave maiden took a proper punch to the face and leaped over, tumbling over Ivar’s still frame. Her wails in Dietsch in the name of God, Jesus and everything holy was eventually enough for the Giant to calm down and shove Piglet away from Ivar. 

  
With his boot, the Giant rolled the lifeless body of his slave over and watched for a moment; clearing his throat when he noticed how Ivar’s chest slowly rose and fell. He grabbed Piglet by the upper arm and dragged her out of the shed. The slave maiden struggled, tried to pause the Giant’s steps, and craned her head over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of life coming from her only companion. She wasn’t granted a moment to check on Ivar, as she was shoved over the doorway and the Giant locked the door. 

  
Silence filled the room, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the animals and Ivar’s chokes on his own blood. 

  
He didn’t recall how long the beating had gone on for, only the final kick in the face that knocked the light out of him. He did not need to open his eyes to see a blooming purple patch of bruises from on his side. 

  
The cawing told him Utstott was close; the sounds echoed from all corners. If he had the strength, he’d open his eyes to glare at the bird. If that feathered rat had any kind of mystical powers, he should have used them during the Giant’s attack.

  
Ivar laid soiled in his own fluids; blood and saliva. When sunlight dawned inside the shed at noon he could still barely move. Every muscle was seized up, struggling to recover and repair the damage done. 

  
The Giant’s boots must have knocked a few screws loose, because as Ivar lay there still and lifeless, his ears picked up the sounds of a small enchanting laugh syncing with the raven’s sounds. 

  
Unable to move with any grace, Ivar tilted his head. The movement was jerky and he quickly placed his head back down as shock casted his strength away. 

  
The fair-maiden stood across from his box, draped in her last white dress. The fabric was torn and wore the blood of her downfall. Specks of blood decorated her pale face, and there was far too much of the crimson fluid to imply she’d survived the fall. 

  
Yet her eyes, bright as a spring morning, were very much alive. 

  
Utstott had claimed his position on her shoulders, scrawny wings matching the color of her pretty dress. The bird produced soft sounds and shared a soft glance with the fair-maiden. 

  
“I’m sorry,” Ivar whispered with a thick throat, “I should have protected you,” swallowing was hard. But not as hard as bearing the guilt of letting her down.

  
The fair-maiden glanced from Utstott to Ivar, her eyes bearing no hatred or anger. They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, until she finally dropped her gaze and clasped her hands together. 

  
As the fair-maiden positioned herself down onto her knees, Utstott took off and landed right in front of Ivar’s face.

  
The bird opened his beak, but instead of a caw that sound that came was that of her voice. A lovely, dulcet voice, Ivar immediately recognised as the voice of Mabelia. 

  
“Vent litt,”  _ hold on _ , her voice spoke through Utstott in his mother’s tongue, “vent litt, dyrebar”. 

  
Breathless, Ivar stared at the bird, unsure if he could trust his own eyes and ears. Or touch.

  
Icy cold hands made contact with his chin and the fair-maiden was right above him. A gentle flush of pink had risen in her cheeks, it made her look both vulnerable and innocent. Death had surrounded her with calmness; her past pain only evident by the specks of blood.

  
Ivar held his breath as she leaned in and tentatively pressed her cold soft lips on his. His head had gone hazy; his body became stagnant at the sensation of her lips against his. And, just as he thought he was going to lose himself in this precious moment, she retreated. Her body moved graciously to the back of Ivar’s box. A look of hope never left her face as she retreated into the shadows and disappeared. Vanished into the dark, like his father. 

  
But, before exiting this cruel world and passing on into the next, both came to say their last goodbye. He’d earned that respect,  _ their _ respect, and in realising that, the pain of knowing he’d never see them again was more overwhelming then the physical pain of his body. 

.-.-.

The abuse the next morning was evidently less harsh and less cruel than the day before. The Giant must have known he’d nearly broken his favorite toy. Instead of putting Ivar through another beating, he simply emptied a bucket over the slave’s head. The brute walked away unbothered to unchain him, all the man wanted was to see if his property was still alive. 

  
“Do  _ not _ touch me!” Ivar hissed through his teeth when Piglet hesitantly approached him. Even last night, he could not bear her pampering and refused any of her help or attempts to start a conversation. 

An untapped rage boiled up from his stomach to the rest of his body. Pain should be flaring up inside, yet he felt numb. Numb and hot, literally angry enough to combust. 

  
“ _ Don’t _ ”, he snarled again, as spit and water ran down his jaw. With twitching fingers he reached around until he found a rock and threw it in Piglet’s direction; seeing the pity gleam in her eyes was insufferable. 

  
As the slave maiden fled the crime scene, Ivar dropped his head back into the hay. He was a mess. A bloody, grotesque mess of crippled limbs, bruises and pain.

  
And rage, most of all, he was in rage. Just like poison ivy, it sprouted, propagated and multiplied every time he was forced to shed blood. Maybe Piglet’s beliefs and his weren’t so different after all, because he felt that  _ thing _ inside of him lurking. The one he called Wrath and she named Djinn. All his life had been a battle against himself. Surely he’d thought it had just been physical, but now he took notice at how he’d always been trying to fight his anger. 

  
Laying there, bloody, beaten and damaged. Between animal feces, hay, and his own saliva, Ivar made a pact with himself. He would no longer restrain the rage inside if it flared up. Yet, it needed to be unleashed under control. What his hands could do to a human canvas was magnificent, a diamond in the rough. 

  
He’d lost a lot of strength during his imprisonment and if he wanted to destroy his oppressors he needed to regain that strength to conquer. He owed her that. The least he could do was destroy the monsters that caused her to take her own life. Not just Ludolf, but  _ all of them _ . Everyone that had been looking away, unbothered to help his fair-maiden. 

  
“If you are something truly supernatural, you better have my back next time!” Ivar scolded Utstott who remained hidden inside the shadows. The soft caws that echoed all throughout the shed almost seemed apologetic. 

  
“Ugly chicken”, Ivar cursed at the raven. Although pain shot through his body, Ivar ignored it and started doing push-ups. He was done being everyone’s obedient lap dog, he’d show them how much of a barking mad mongrel he could be. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: I guess this brings us back to the question, what’s real and what isn’t? As Ragnar’s ‘goodbye’ the fair-maiden kissing him could be a dream, an illusion made up inside Ivar’s own head to deal with pain and grief.  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ Mabelia's death and Ivar’s reaction towards it was an interesting thing to write. I didn’t like ‘killing her off’ because she was one of the few good things in Ivar’s life. I also felt that there could have been ‘more’ between them if things would have been different. He was attracted to her beauty and adoration towards him. 

_ Making Ivar clear her ‘death bed’ was kinda the cherry on top to break some tears for our poor prince. Oh tragedy… _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _


	33. Of mice and men

**Chapter 33) Of mice and men**

**.-.-.**

  
  


Out of troubles and pain will emerge strength and triumph, that was what kept Ivar from devolving back into the Bloody Bear of Kattegat. The Giant hadn’t bothered to unshackle him due to his poor state and a few days had passed, of which he’d spent mostly in solitude. Stubborn solitude, because Piglet did her best to strike up a conversation: 

“Ivar I’m-” Piglet started, but Ivar cut her off.

  
“Do  _ not _ say you’re sorry. You despised her!” Ivar snapped, rediscovering his voice and his temper, “you hated her!” 

  
Piglet pursed her lips and kept them firmly shut, the look upon his face frightened her. She must have noticed the change within him, too. The Djinn or Wrath had been pushing him to his limits. His physical limits, too, because every damn day that he was shackled like an animal, Ivar used to regain his strength. Carrying his lower body across his box, over and over. There was something empowering about those repetitive actions; it was mind over body, because his body  _ ached _ due to the recent beating. 

  
“I want more food,” Ivar demanded after the Giant locked the door for the night.

  
“I want golden slippers and a dress made of silk,” Piglet answered matter-of-factly, while knitting a new scarf, “but  _ we _ don’t get what  _ we _ want.” 

  
Her reaction made Ivar shut his mouth for the rest of the evening, deciding he needed to lower his standards in order to regain more strength and muscle. He’d never been a very picky eater and desperate times called for desperate measures. 

After dusk settled and Piglet curled up beside him, Ivar kept his eyes open and his knife raised above his head. Uttstot’s interested cawing echoed as Ivar held his breath and pricked up his ears. 

  
Soft squeaks slowly erupted from the floorboards, during the night it was mice that ruled the shed. Fast, scurrying little bastards; always curious and eager to find crumbs of food. 

  
Ivar remained motionless, supporting his weight on his elbow, careful not to make a sound. Until a very brave mouse came too close and signed it’s own death warrant.

Ivar’s knife met with flesh; tiny limbs spasmed for the last time. He pulled the mouse off the blade, careful not to tear the small thing up. 

  
Ivar was used to skinning rabbits; but mice turned out to be a challenge. It required special skill to slice the fur and organs from such a small body. He made a mess and decided that the kill was so meager, he’d also have to eat the organs, too. 

If he had to describe the taste, he’d have to go with quite pungent and gamey. But the taste wasn’t bad enough to make him gag. Besides, Ivar never had any aversion to the taste of blood. 

  
Tearing meat from a tiny hipbone, Ivar failed to pick up on the sound of keys stealthily twisting into the lock of the shed, before a shadow of a monster lurked inside. 

  
While chewing on vermin meat, Ivar locked eyes with Ludolf who froze in the doorway. 

Candlelight illuminated his face, which immediately fell when the young ruler lay eyes on the cripple slave. It must be a peculiar sight, seeing another human’s mouth covered in blood, ripping the bones and intestines from a mouse. 

  
It was enough for Ludolf to snatch a handkerchief out of his pocket and press it in front of his mouth, muffling a squeamish gag noise.

  
The disconcerted whimper that followed from those lopsided lips was enough for Ivar’s ego to rise and stand taller than the Giant. 

  
He ripped off the tiny head of the rodent and held its ear between his thumb and index finger, bringing it in full view. 

  
“You see this, spineless bastard?” Ivar spoke toneless and wiggled the head before pressing it into the palm of his hand, “if you ever cross Piglet’s line, yours will be next,” and with all the spite he could muster Ivar rammed his fist into his palm.

  
Blood and specks of gray matter splattered across Ivar’s face, and the absolute disgust coming from Ludolf’s throat was simply music to his ears. 

Ivar held his palm up, so that the young ruler could have a front row seat to the bloody mouse pulp before bringing it to his mouth. 

  
For the second time Ivar managed to cast Ludolf out of the shed by grossing him out. Stumbling over his own legs Ludolf fled their shed. As the keys locked the door, Ivar wiped the crushed skull and brains off on the hay covered floor and held his breath. 

  
Piglet’s calm nasal weeze indicated that the young woman slept through the whole scene. 

“Not to be all sanctimonious, dear Piglet,” Ivar whispered to the sleeping form of his companion, “but you don’t know the half of what an incredible safe keeper I am to you.”

.-.-.

Piglet woke up with a lot of dramatic noise and gestures. Stretching her arms, cracking her neck, and exhaling a deep yawn. Ivar rolled his eyes at her, arms tucked behind his head and still wide awake. During the hours traveling towards morning he’d decided not to tell Piglet about Ludolf’s nightly visit. What good would it do? None at all, and it would be nice if at least one of them had a proper sleep during the night. 

  
All were wrapped in silence; Piglet was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Utstott hadn’t made a peep ever since Ludolf pressed the keys into the lock. That feathered creature was a lousy guard dog. 

  
And Ivar was simply brooding, inwardly declaring war on the entire world. 

  
Piglet eventually broke the silence: “What happened to your face?” she asked and bobbed her index finger against his cheek. 

  
Realising his face was still covered with specks of mouse splatter, Ivar dully rubbed the back of his hand over his cheek and with a shrug muttered, “I fell.” 

  
“Into what,  _ paint _ ?” Piglet retorted, raising an eyebrow, “that’s blood,” she stated and took hold of his chin, “what did you kill?” 

  
Ivar roughly slapped her hand away, “this does not concern you,” he growled. 

  
“If the Toothless finds animal carcasses in here it  _ is _ my concern,” Piglet rapidly bit back, getting into his face again, “what.did.you.kill?” 

  
It was evident that Piglet would continue to pester him about his nocturnal massacre until she reached his breaking point and had her front teeth knocked in by his fist. As that would do  _ neither  _ of them any good, Ivar sighed deeply and extremely annoyed.

  
“ _ Fine,”  _ with one swift move he wiped away hay and plucked four badly scalped mice furs from the dirty floor. Tossing them in front of Piglet’s bare feet, the young woman screeched and shoved herself backwards on hands and feet. 

  
“W-what did you do with-” 

  
Ivar cut her off: “-the rest? I  _ ate it _ dear Piglet, because I am sick of being  _ hungry _ all the time. And since you refuse to do anything about it, well, let’s say I had to take matters into my own two hands. Bloody hands.” Ivar added, showing his palms.

  
It wasn’t often Ivar managed to leave Piglet speechless, but his ability to absolutely disgust others knew no limits. He of course learned from the mistress herself. 

  
“You are eating rats in the middle of the night?” Piglet eventually muttered, forming her disgust into a question.

  
“ _ Mice _ ,” Ivar corrected her. ‘I scared away a spineless rat though,’ he thought to himself, but kept his lips firmly pressed shut. 

  
“Mice…” Piglet dully mumbled more to herself then to Ivar, “Hamar, by Allah, he’s eating  _ mice _ …” 

.-.-.   
  


_ A/N: I’m sure there are others that share my worst nightmare: people finding out the things you google. For this chapter the worst search was: ‘what do mice taste like?’ Interesting fact, apparently there are many ways you can eat mice. Another fun fact about this chapter, I wrote it while eating a jelly doughnut, which about halfway through turned out to not be the best idea.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ So yes, our Prince is eating vermin, grossed Ludolf out and saved Piglet’s virtue for another day. I’ve had a bad case of writer's block but I am recovering, so that’s why the length of this chapter is rather short for my books.  _

_ Hopefully next chapter won’t take as long,  _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _

  
  
  



	34. Nest egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Piglet, why on earth are we stacking up pieces of brittle bricks in the midst of this sweltering day?” Ivar asked, while drops of sweat ran down his chin

.-.-.

The blessing of the Gods came in the form of a small miracle, or at least that was how Ivar wanted to see it when the Giant unshackled him. The brute motioned for him to hurry up into the sun, and Ivar surprised himself at how fast he could crawl out of the shed. 

  
Spring kindly offered her place up for Summer and, as it already was midday, the sun stood tall and mighty in the sky, kissing the skin of the hard labourers of de Haar. 

  
Ivar was unsure where the Giant was leading him, but the man hadn’t made an attempt to bash his skull in, so cautiously he followed like a meek lamb. They crossed the centre where the Giant collected a few more workers; all strong, young men and women. Heading towards the gate, Ivar found himself relieved to spot Piglet among the small crowd that had already gathered there. 

  
“What is happening?” Ivar eagerly asked, fortunate to have at least one person nearby who spoke his language. 

  
“The turf wagons are here,” Piglet explained as she crouched down next to him, “we need to transport it to one of the outbuildings.”

  
“ _ Turf _ ?” Ivar questioned, but Piglet was back upon her toes as the Giant strolled along the line of workers, belting out orders. 

  
Three huge drays came through the main gates, all pulled by a couple of mules. Ivar hurriedly shuffled backward to prevent his feet from getting trampled. 

  
Curious, Ivar tilted his chin up and brought his hands to his lap as the crowd around him jumped into action. Everyone around him seemed familiar with the routine; two men climbed on top of the drays and started handing out what appeared to be stacks of bricks. 

  
But Ivar soon found out how brittle the items were, as Piglet shoved one into his hands. Parts crumbled off on the sides. The structure was quite similar to that of very dry soil. 

  
“Yallah,” Piglet pressed, nudging her head towards the Giant, “just follow the crowd.” 

  
Ivar nodded sheepishly and tied an extra knot into the potato bag that kept his lower legs pressed together. 

  
It was evident he wasn’t of much use; with one arm pressing pieces of turf against his chest he only had one left to crawl. He shuffled himself forward using his right hip and right hand. The rest of the workers had a good laugh over him as they passed him by time after time. Ivar stubbornly refused to meet their entertained gazes and firmly kept his eyes on the floor. 

  
Trailing after the workers at a snail’s pace, Ivar saw them disappear into one of the outbuildings across the cobble-stone centre. The huge space was evidently used for storage. On the floor were rows of large barrels, scaffolds were built to create more space. Men and women were stacking up the turf on top of them. 

  
Piglet grabbed the humble pieces of turf from Ivar’s hands and smirked: “about time, slugger,” she mocked. Sweat lay on her skin and she had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt all the way to her shoulders. 

  
Ivar watched her turn around and sprint back into action. Even though her body was forced into tough labour, Piglet somehow managed to hold onto some of her grace, and pride. With elegance, she weaved in and around the other workers, handing Ivar’s pieces of turf to one of the men that climbed up the ladders. 

  
Ivar envied her; her feet dancing as she zigzagged through the maze of people, exiting the outbuilding. 

  
Along with envy, Ivar held a sense of deep respect for her, too. Today, like many times in the past, she’d simply felt obligated to take him under her wing. She kept him out of harm's way the best she could, and was never too greedy to keep all of her food to herself. 

  
During a short break, Ivar felt ashamed to be handed food by Piglet. He’d managed to crawl three times back and forth while everyone around him had managed to do that tenfold. 

  
As the pair of them were the lowest in rank, they were forced to sit directly in the sun. Their backs left moist prints on the walls of castle de Haar, but both refused to take any piece of their attire off. Piglet’s reason was quite evident; her religion and fear of men. Ivar kept his shirt on due to shame. He was more than done with all the lingering gazes and ridicule as he crawled around. Showing his scarred back would only prolong the agony of being such an obvious freak.

  
“Piglet, why on  _ earth  _ are we stacking up pieces of brittle bricks in the midst of this sweltering day?” Ivar asked, while drops of sweat ran down his chin. 

“It’s for winter,” Piglet explained, “the turf has been left to dry in the sun and ready to be stored for the cold days. They use it inside the castle once the wood grows scarce, turf burns three times longer.”

  
“Everything to keep the fat rulers hot, high, and dry,” Ivar scoffed and pressed the back of his head against the wall, “even if it causes us to suffer a heat stroke.”

  
“At least you are out of the shed,” Piglet reminded him. Her skin was glistening and the nape of her neck was damp, waving her hands in front of her face in an attempt to cool off, “that’s something.”

  
“Oh I am just beyond myself with delight,” Ivar snarled, “I could not possibly be happier about my life right now.” 

  
“Hamar,” Piglet retorted, rolling her eyes at him. 

  
Ivar let her remark pass, it was too hot to bicker. His hair lay like a second skin over his cheeks and his right side was aching from scraping over the floor. Sure, the potato bags took the worst punch, but his body wasn’t made to grate over stone and dirt like this. 

  
“Back to work,” Piglet spoke when the Giant started shoving and kicking randomly at the seated workers. 

  
“Yes, back to work,” Ivar repeated without any enthusiasm. 

.-.-.

“You know,” Piglet started, “when women bear a child they suffer the most unendurable pain imaginable,” she paused for a moment allowing Ivar to moan and growl as he dragged his lower body across his box, “women make less sound during childbirth,” she pointed out, with the clear message to Ivar to shut his mouth. 

  
If looks could kill Piglet would be dead.  _ If only _ . Instead she let out a deeply troubled sigh and continued stitching Ivar’s ripped potato bags together. 

  
Ivar grunted, biting his lips to keep in most of the pain and ache he pushed his body to endure. 

‘Once more’, he’d been ordering himself every time he tapped the opposite side of his box. The shackles rattled over the floor, his knees sore from being dragged along. His lungs expanded with every gasp and breath. Heart beating stronger than a day before. He was dead set on pushing his body to its absolute limit, because he made an oath; to his father, to the fair-maiden, and to himself. He would rise from the ashes and destroy his rulers. 

  
And if he wanted to succeed, he needed to be at least twice as strong as their strongest fighter due to his clear disadvantage. 

  
Piglet tsked when she noticed the poor state of his palms, all blisters and blood, but aside from pursing her lips firmly together she made no comment. 

  
“Please don’t hunt for mice tonight, it’s disgusting,” Piglet pleaded once Ivar finally dropped himself down on his ass and called it a day. 

  
“You’re disgusting,” Ivar spit back in lack of a better remark, massaging the back of his neck.    
Piglet didn’t even bother to react to his childish response and lay down in the middle of his box, her back facing him. 

  
“What an attitude,” Ivar murmured to Utstott when Piglet’s breath became nasal and high pitched, “of all women I could possibly burden myself to protect…” his voice trailed off and his eyes grew softer when the white raven flew down onto his knee. The bird turned its head for a bit and ruffled up its feathers before calmly allowing Ivar to pet it right underneath its beak. 

  
“I’d do anything to be you Utstott,” Ivar whispered, “if I had wings I’d be free, I don’t think I’d ever plan on landing back on earth.” 

  
Utstott glanced up at him dull with its good eye and hopped from his right knee to the left. Dusk was setting in and Ivar rubbed his eyes. Exhaustion tried to tame him down, but he could not afford to fall asleep. Not yet, at least. He had no idea if Ludolf planned another nightly visit. To be sure, Ivar planned to stay awake until early dawn, at least for the first few upcoming nights. 

  
“You better keep that one good eye of yours open and not play the coward like you did last night,” Ivar scorned at Utstott who’d quietly pecked at the feathers of his tail, “she treats you well, and we both need her to survive, so you better have her back.” 

  
Utstott bobbed his head and glanced over at the sleeping form of Piglet before letting out a soft caw, then took off and claimed its nightly spot above Ivar’s box. It made Ivar wonder how much the mysterious bird understood human language and behaviour. 

  
Taking hold of his legs, Ivar swung them into a more comfortable position and wondered if tomorrow would bring him another day out in the sun. 

.-.-.

_ A/N: So there was a little history lesson on here about turf, also known as peat. Holland has the perfect soil/ecosystem for turf to grow. So how ‘bou ‘tat, who said fanfiction is purely entertainment!?  _

_ We are also slowly heading towards the ending of this fix, I think about 5 more chapters or so...dumdummmdummmm…. _

_ Thanks for reading again, leave a comment and make a writer happy:)  _

  
  



	35. Embodiment of Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was ironic how one tiny bone could change the course of so many lives; almost like a cruel joke, orchestrated by the one and only God named Loki the Trickster.

**.-.-.**

It was ironic how one tiny bone could change the course of so many lives; almost like a cruel joke, orchestrated by the one and only God named Loki the Trickster. 

Piglet and Ivar had been playing the knucklebone game after another day of hard labour in the sun. Ivar had been forced to scrub the main staircase; it beat cleaning chamber pots and he’d been allowed fresh air, so in his books it had been a good day. 

  
Piglet had been scampering around the cobblestoned centre, taking care of the animals. It had calmed Ivar’s heart to be able to keep his eyes on her. Unaware of Ludolf’s late night visit, she had no idea what possible danger lurked around the corner.

Well, of course, she was very much aware. As a female slave she had all the odds against her. Yet, she’d managed to put up such a repulsive force field of stench and poor personal hygiene, most men preferred to run past her then to grope underneath her long dress. 

  
Aside from that she’d always be  _ het teerkind _ , the tar child with the skin the color of damp soil. An outcast in all ways, shapes and forms.

“You are cheating!” Ivar moped after losing for a third time in a row.

  
“Am not,” Piglet reacted, hand placed on her heart, “cheating is a sin against Allah. You’re just a sour loser, Ivar.” 

  
Muttering something offensive under his breath, Ivar tossed the knucklebones across the shed. He’d started to resent himself for making the game ‘a little more interesting’ by adding the ‘three questions rule’. By now, it mostly meant he was the one forced to answer embarrassing questions. And if he refused or threw a tantrum, Piglet would give him the stink eye and mark him a ‘sour loser’. 

  
Utstott’s cackling echoed across the shed and Ivar could swear the bird was laughing at him. 

Utstott did not show himself a lot, but the soft noise of fluttering feathers always gave away that he was around;lurking in the shadows like a thief in the night, even during daytime. The bird was smart and somehow understood that it should not show itself to strangers. It seemed to know the danger of the Giant, and Ivar also got the feeling that Utstott liked to maintain a bit of privacy, too. 

  
In addition to giving the stink eye, Piglet also managed to gift Ivar the most stoic glare of indifference, which she’d solemnly employ if he pissed her off. At present, that glare was accompanied by her stomping feet and lips pursed into a tight line as she scanned the shed; in search of her beloved knucklebones. 

  
Ivar overheard her calling him a donkey in her mother tongue as she disappeared from view to pick up the pieces. 

  
He gnashed his teeth as he ignored her obvious name calling and stretched out his legs in front of himself. They hurt from the constant scraping over the cobble-stones without proper protection. Leaning back against the wood, he tried to come up with a remark to put that savage back in place. 

  
Brooding like a pathetic manchild, the brusque slam of the door caught Ivar by surprise.The sound of jolted hinges cracked through the shed, loud as a whip.

  
Ludolf’s unannounced presence turned Piglet into a marble statue. Witnessing the shock of horror on the slave maiden’s face visually pleased the young ruler, spiking his deformed upper lip into a grim smile. A knife flickered; another piece of evidence demonstrating the cowardly ways of Ludolf. Piglet was no match for him and could easily be overpowered, yet the little shit did not dare take any risk. 

  
Ivar, shackled and seated across the box, was forced to watch his only companion being roughly manhandled back onto her feet by her neck. It was quite evident what horror would soon ruin her for good. 

  
As Ludolf’s long fingers roamed freely, strength to fight seemed to desert Piglet. It shattered like shards of glass. Her body was still, throat gulping against the sharp edge of the knife. 

Against better judgment Ivar launched himself forwards; “LET HER GO,” he fumed on top of his lungs. 

  
Ludolf shrunk back a little and closed the door to prevent Ivar from alarming others. Pulling Piglet closely to his chest, the young woman squeezed her hands into fists. Yet her arms remained at her sides, petrified at the thought of having her throat cut like a sheep. 

  
“Let her go,” Ivar demanded again, baring his teeth. His fingernails scratched over the floor to find better grip. 

  
Ludolf was no longer intimidated by the raging cripple. As long as he remained on the safe side of Piglet’s line, he had nothing to fear. The young ruler grinned and as he did the temperature in the room seemed to fall. 

  
Ludolf struggled to unbuckle his belt and ungracefully shook his hips to lower down his pants. Piglet remained paralyzed, still and soundless. The last bit of fire within her eyes extinguished when Ludolf’s hand disappeared underneath her skirts and traveled all the way up to her crotch.

  
It was right then and there that Utstott proved his value. The bird came soundless from the shadows and attacked the young ruler’s face at full force. It’s claws imbedded the skin of Ludolf’s cheek deeply and drew blood, as Utstott’s beak targeted the eyes. 

  
The sudden encounter with the white raven threw Ludolf off balance. In an attempt to stop the bird from pecking out one of his eyes, he began flailing with his free hand. All of this thrashing with his pants down at his feet was enough to send him straight to the floor, taking Piglet with him. 

  
Ludolf’s hand crossed Piglet’s line and that humble action unleashed Ivar’s Wrath. It was as if something inside of him took over; an out of body experience.

  
Still imagining Ludolf’s smug grin, Ivar dragged the young man across the floor, further into reach. 

  
“I will make sure you will never smile that disgusting lopsided smile again,” Ivar heard himself promise as he glared down at his victim. 

  
All color drained from Ludolf’s face, wide eyed, the petrified bastard drew his knife up at Ivar.    
With skilled reflexes Ivar drew back, there was a tinge of pain coming from his bicep where the knife grazed his skin, but not enough to break him from his maddening spell. Seeing red, he grabbed Ludolf’s wrist and repeatedly bashed his hand into the floor until pain caused the young ruler to release the knife.

  
He could have picked up the knife and made it a fast kill, redirecting the weapon back deeply into its owner. It would be  _ easy _ to plunge the blade into soft and pudgy flesh, meeting vital organs. 

  
But Ivar’s Wrath was not seeking a mercy kill. Not after everything that spineless creature had put him through. 

  
His left hand locked itself around Ludolf’s throat like a bear trap. Ludolf opened his mouth; to either scream or maybe plead for his life, for forgiveness, for everything the Christian perceived holy, all to keep the crippled berserker from harming him. 

  
Ivar would never get to know what sound would’ve come from that mouth though, because the moment Ludolf opened his lips, Ivar shoved his index, middle and ring finger into that gaping hole of fright. 

  
Taking a good hold onto his victim's jaw, he started pulling downwards. Ludolf’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets as the joints that connected his lower jawbone to his skull were being stretched to their absolute limits. 

  
The pain that flared up the moment Ivar felt the jawbone dislocate must have been immense. Good, that creature deserved to be in as much pain as Ivar could possibly inflict. 

  
“Now, smile for me, little bitch,” Ivar heard himself speak before giving one powerful haul on the lower jaw. Muscles and skin ripped and bone gave in, separating the jawbone completely from the skull. 

  
During the whole process, Ludolf’s limbs had been making quick, erratic movements. But now his entire body went limp. With huge eyes, the young ruler gazed upwards, at what he must have thought was Lucifer himself. 

Incapable of comprehending that his face had been monstrously mutilated, Ludolf faintly observed how Ivar amused himself by performing a small play with his ripped off jawbone. 

  
“What do you think of this new face, suits his disgusting inside, no?” Ivar asked calmly, directing himself to Ludolf’s jawbone, “what’s that?” he asked, and pressed the upper lip against his ear, “you want to see the inside too?” he elevated the jawbone in front of his own face and made it nod, “well, aren’t we two peas in a pod.”

  
Releasing Ludolf’s throat, Ivar took the jawbone into both of his hands. For a moment, he watched his victim squirm beneath him like a worm in the sand; tongue drooling and flickering while blood ran down what was left of his face. 

  
“Let’s see how ugly you are on the inside,” he spoke with childlike glee, right before he bashed his hands down. Ivar was reminded of the time he’d watched the men in his hometown club baby seals, and so he mimicked the motions. The only difference was they had used a club, and now he was using the young man’s own jawbone. 

‘He looks a lot like the mouse,’ Ivar realised after plunging the bone countless times into Ludolf’s face. Well, what was left of it anyway. 

Tossing down his grotesque murderweapon, his nostrils flared, filling up with the smell of blood; there was a sense of pride lurching inside of his stomach. A peculiar wave of inner peace seemed to sweep him off his feet. 

  
He’d done this, he was the creator of  _ this _ . Even with all the odds against him, he’d been able to do this. Vengeance was his, staring up at him in a very bloody and disturbing way. 

  
Tweezing his fingers underneath what was left of Ludolf’s lopsided upper lip, spreading it wide he whispered: “perfect.” 

  
A sound in between a sob and a choke broke Ivar’s spell. For a moment he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, because there was no way Ludolf was able to produce any sound. 

  
It took a few moments before it dawned on him that Piglet had witnessed the entire ordeal. 

  
Curious, he glanced up and spotted the slave maiden across the shed, huddled up into a corner. With her arms wrapped around her knees she was slowly rocking back and forth, eyes possessed with a feral shimmer. Unearthly, animalistic even. Ivar had seen that glance before, it was the face of impending death. Humanity’s last link to its feral ancestors. 

  
“Piglet?” Ivar softly called out her name. Her head immediately snapped in his direction and her eyes locked with his. 

  
The utter disgust that lay in her entire being caught Ivar off guard, but before he could respond, Piglet sat up. Staring at the murder scene the sight and smell of all the gore brought up a wave of sickness that went far beyond any physical retching. 

  
Piglet hurled up countless times, leaning on all fours while tears streamed down her face.    
Her reaction to his act of protection felt like an insult, as a stab in the back. He’d done this for her, didn’t she understand that? Did she not see that this bloodshed had been because of her? 

  
When Piglet’s stomach was finally empty she sat up and grabbed her stomach, still crying her eyes out. While snot and tears ran down her face she re-opened her eyes and she gasped when she realised the small treasure that lay across the shed.

  
_ Keys _ . Ludolf’s  _ keys _ . 

  
Piglet practically threw herself at them. With trembling fingers she snatched them up from the floor. Struggling to get up from her knees she turned towards the door and made a leap for it.

  
“DON’T YOU DARE!” Ivar shouted as Piglet’s fingers twitched around the handle. She froze on the spot.

  
“You won’t get far,” he promised her, “not with all the guards around. And if they see  _ this _ ,” he spread his arms at the blood, brain and bones, “it will be on you,  _ too _ !” 

  
That realisation made Piglet’s hand move down from the handle and slowly turn around. Her legs gave in and with her back pressed against the door, she dropped on the floor. 

  
“Allah…” she started pleadingly, but Ivar cut her off.

  
“Your God will not save you now. Only I can save you, as I’ve saved you tonight and many times before,” he told her truthfully. 

  
“You are Shaytan,” Piglet whimpered eyes still bizarrely widened.

  
“If you want to perceive me as the embodiment of evil, that’s fine with me,” Ivar said oddly prideful, “but I am also the only person inside these walls who has your back. I am your only chance at survival Piglet, don’t tell me otherwise. And I did this for you!” 

  
Piglet’s face fell. She knew that she would be held accountable for the murder of Ludolf. She was a resident of the shed too. Everyone knew how much she despised the young ruler. It did not matter that his blood was not on her hands; her presence was enough to make her suffer on the pyre. 

  
Or at the stake, the gallows, death by flagellation, Ivar didn’t know what the penalty was for murdering a Lord. 

  
He didn’t care either, the fact that he’d been able to claim such bloody revenge was a sign of the Gods. They’d send him Utstott when he’d been at his lowest. They wanted him to survive and victor against all odds. And clearly Piglet was a pawn on his journey.

“Help me hide the body underneath the hay,” he ordered, “ _ hurry _ ,” he snapped when Piglet didn’t immediately jump back upon her feet. 

  
To both his surprise and satisfaction, Piglet managed to pull herself back together. They did have the season against them, a body would rapidly grow into a state of decay so whatever the Gods wanted to happen, had to happen fast. 

“During the next Sunday service, we strike like thieves in the night,” Ivar revealed, as a marvelous plan started to form, “we will destroy the castle of de Haar and every last man, woman and child within it.” 

.-.-.

_ A/N: So I think this was the most graphic piece I’ve written so far. I know it’s absolutely terrible and detailed, that’s what I was aiming for. It took me a while to come up with the ‘perfect ending’ of Ludolf. I needed it to be sorta poetic, not just a ‘plunge a knife into his guts and he died’. That’s how I came up with the ‘jaw’, because of his harelip. It seemed suitable for Ivar to destroy his opponents ‘weakness’. Destroy that part that always stands out, which ironically is what he wished to do to himself.  _

_ This was a very difficult chapter to write. I wanted to draw out the monster. We’ve seen his more caring side and recently experienced along with him that he’s able to feel grief. Not to mention how awkward he gets around the opposite sex. This berserker side, this evilness inside of him, is also a part of him. A large part of him, one that I feel I should underline and sorta rub into your face. If it the Wrath, is it the Djinn, or simply a part of his being? I guess that’s the question.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ I am extremely curious what you think of this chapter and hope I didn’t ruin anyone’s breakfast/lunch/dinner.  _

_ Xoxoxo Nukyster  _

  
  



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